#This year as I try to pick the project back up again after abandoning it for like 3 years I keep looking at stuff and going.. ough...

[qiupachups]

miles.g / wiles

.｡.+*☆ headcannons 👾💭

contents: general hcs, mention of his father’s death, i call 42-miles ‘wiles’, me sorta bullying him

a/n: after a lot of procrastination and harassment gentle encouragement from @vhstown i’m finally posting my hcs. :3c (they’ve been sitting here since july)

Despite his tough guy exterior and criminal career, he's actually a massive nerd geek. Like: gundham, comics, posters all over his room.

Until you bring up those interests, he won't mention them. But once you start a conversation about them, he can tell you all the lore front to back or tell you where and when each collectible is from. Just listening to Wiles and nodding along will make his day.

Accepting help from others is not an option. Ever. He's an overly D.I.Y guy since his father's death and it's staying that way.

... unless you're very close to him. Wiles will begrudgingly accept your help and then be adamant on repaying you. No matter how trivial it was, he'll show his gratitude through service.

Wiles has great memory and knows all the lyrics to his favourite songs. Go through his playlist and pick something at random- he'll recite them flawlessly!

A good memory also helps with remembering those flashes of songs playing on your lock screen. Just a split second glance? He's adding it to his playlist, maybe listening to it as he works on his latest gear.

Would be a straight A student if he were there half the time. The only thing keeping his total grades down is attendance, where he’s often absent.

However, if he’s in a group project with you, Wiles will put more effort into it. Getting a ‘C’ or GPA point lower is fine if it means keeping Brooklyn safer. What’s not fine is him being the reason for your lower marks.

Unlike his counterpart from 1610, Wiles’ art is more realistic. He tries to capture the subjects’ essence quickly and minimally, so colours are an afterthought.

Accuracy was his pride in art until it came to you. He’d be so nervous in getting your smile right, scribbling failed attempts over and over again. Wiles even resorted to a pencil sketch.

Following the passing of Jefferson, Wiles has gotten much closer to Rio. That’s a no brainer; he was fourteen— a kid. And Jefferson never got to see his son in that overpriced Visions uniform.

Wiles makes an effort to speak more Spanish. He lets his mamí braid his hair even if it hurts like hell. Those stupid telenovelas aren’t that bad on the second watch.

Once upon a time, Wiles used to be a choir boy (keyword: used). He’d love singing hymns and doing nativities before he could read; all for his mamí and dad to see.

However, the christmas after Jefferson’s passing felt… empty. Wiles quickly lost his passion for choir and now just attends mass with Rio at most.

After years of experience being a choir boy, Wiles has the voice of an angel. Not that you’d know, of course— he intends to take that to the grave. But there’s also a deeper, darker secret… he can’t rap to save his life.

An extremely personal and harrowing Musically comment told him so. Following that attack, twelve year old Wiles abandoned his account with only a black profile picture left behind.

Like any other middle schooler, Wiles had a hype beast phase (he denies it). When Aaron got a Hype shirt for Wiles’ 12th birthday, words couldn’t describe how he almost knocked Aaron down with a hug.

The shirt’s first stain had Wiles distraught and furiously searching ‘remove paint on shirt hacks’ on Youtube. His heart would probably stop if he misplaced a gift from you.

Wiles isn’t the best cook, but he can definitely make himself a good meal. With Rio working night shifts and Uncle Aaron doing… jobs, he has to be self-sufficient.

A secret lil’ side project: he’s trying and failing to replicate Jefferson’s mac ‘n cheese. It wasn’t the best, but it was his. Something’s always off when Wiles makes it and he’s not quite sure what.

Sure, cooking isn’t that hard, but baking is like wizardry to Wiles. AP Chemistry and it’s endless calculations felt way easier than making pan de agua with his mamí.

But, mamí didn’t raise no quitter! On a particularly busy birthday, Wiles pulled together a modest little cake for Rio. She burst into tears seeing the shaky ‘!Feliz Cumple!’ written in too-sweet icing.

Calling Earth-42 a wreck is a massive understatement. Shit’s like Gotham, only very real and very deadly. Just breathing in that damn city air makes Wiles’ skin crawl.

Luckily, he’s got an outlet: boxing. A fun hobby he picked up from Uncle Aaron became his release. Wiles might never be in the ring, but Brooklyn’s more than enough.

a/n #2: what the fuck. this was supposed to be short and silly and fun. exsqueeze me how did this… erm. disjointed mess.

[trivialbob]

The Good, the bad, and the Ugly

The Good - For Christmas Sheila signed me up for Surly Brewing's Bottle Project. Four times a year I get a limited edition beer. I love limited edition beers.

This week I went to the large brewery and restaurant to pick up the first bottle. There was also a metal water bottle for me. A lot of people there for the same reason. Surly also had a small tasting event for us.

We got to try a sample of what's in that bottle: North, a barleywine ale aged in fernet barrels. Very good.

Then we sampled Tattersall distillery's amaro and fernet, two bitter, aromatic spirits. I liked each, but probably not enough to buy a 750ml bottle of either.

The Bad - Last night I opened the dishwasher to put in a final glass. I peered inside to admire my handiwork before pressing the start button. Nothing caps off the end of my day like starting the dishwasher, then going to bed while it works, and I sleep.

Some people don't care how they load a dishwasher. But I do. I like to imagine things get more clean when the plates are aligned, pieces of silverware all face the same direction, and cups and mugs are thoughtfully placed at an angle where they don't accumulate water if the bottoms are concave.

Feng shui matters in appliances too.

My wife, standing behind me, watched. Earlier, she had turned one plate around. Two plates now faced each other. A good host doesn't seat a left-handed person to the right of a right-handed person. Their elbows will bump. Always something to think about. And plates shouldn't face each other in the dishwasher because... well, just because.

She laughed as I corrected the placement. Then I started the machine and retired to the guest room for the night.

The Ugly - Friends of ours parked a vehicle in our driveway while they were in Mexico for a few weeks. We live not far from the airport and don't mind dropping off people so they don't have to pay for parking. Last night I picked up the couple in their own vehicle.

It's a 29-year-old Jeep Grand Cherokee. At one time this was a very nice, expensive SUV with leather seats, automatic climate control, and other luxury features. The paint had been white, I think.

Today it's their winter beater.

Before I could drive to MSP I had to jump start the Jeep for the second time. I had run it the day before, to make sure it would start, after jump starting it the first time.

To unlock the hood I pulled on Vice Grip pliers that were permanently affixed to a cable under the dashboard.

Once the Jeep was running, it was loud. The exhaust system apparently was vacationing in Mexico too, leaving me with a deep rumbling, rusty Jeep.

Driving along I-494 made me think the road was covered in ice. It was just the Jeep. The right side tires were not in agreement with the left side ones, or the front with the back either. Like four kids fighting in the back seat, except I couldn't hear them over the sound of the exhaust. The power steering didn't work either. Driving in a straight line required two hands at all times and much concentration. What an ingenious way to keep a person from texting while driving.

At the cell phone lot I waited briefly while our friends collected luggage and went through customs. There was no way I was going to shut off the Jeep, for fear it wouldn't start again. So I sat next to two unfortunate drivers who surely could hear and feel the Jeep's exhaust. While stationary, I began to smell that exhaust too. Only my sense of sight was spared from it. Had I seen the toxic gas inside the Jeep I probably would have simply abandoned the vehicle where it was parked.

Finally I picked up the couple in the arrivals section. Traffic was pretty bad. After they were belted in, I tried to leave but was blocked all around. An officer directing traffic must have been tired of the sound, smell, and sight of that Jeep.

He--and I'm not exaggerating--stopped two lanes of traffic, made another car move forward, and directed me to get the Jeep into the far left lane so I could leave. I waved to him in thanks. H probably rolled his eyes.

On the way to my house I good-naturedly remarked about the condition of the Jeep. The wife of the couple laughed, then asked: "You're not writing about this on your blog, are you?"

Of course not.

[novlr]

so, i'm FINALLY finishing out this story younger-me had! I'm super excited about it!!!!

however, I do worry: I was in a fog for the 7 years between when I abandoned the project and when i picked it back up. I REALLY don't want that to happen again when i finish this project!!!

Any advice for dealing with either that feeling, or figuring out a new story to tell after?

It is an astonishing and fulfilling achievement to finish a big writing project. It’s the grand finale to months or even years of diligent work, late nights, and endless edits. But once the dust settles, many of us grapple with a common conundrum: how do you maintain the writing spark and motivation to continue on to our next creative project?

Take time to celebrate your achievement

Don’t be afraid to take a break and celebrate your achievement. This is not merely a matter of pride, but a crucial step in the creative cycle. Give yourself permission to bask in your success, acknowledge the hard-won lessons extracted from the process, and allow them to sink in. A well-deserved break not only marks the end of one chapter but also gives you the chance to find excitement in applying the things you learned along the way.

Find new sources of inspiration

To capture the spark you need to start on a new writing project, you must explore a wide range of places to find a fresh wellspring of inspiration. Dive into books, devouring both familiar and unfamiliar genres, and read voraciously. Step out of your usual surroundings and let different environments stimulate your senses and creative thoughts. Indulge in diverse creative pursuits beyond the realm of writing to spark original ideas and approaches that can enhance your storytelling.

Set new goals and challenges

Reignite your excitement by setting new writing goals and challenges after completing a project. Generate ideas through writing prompts, or writing games. Try your hand at writing in a genre that feels unfamiliar and step out of your comfort zone. Consider taking part in a writing contest or join a writing community to refine your skills and meet other writers. But most importantly, establish regular, manageable writing targets to maintain a steady routine and celebrate yourself every time you achieve a goal.

Join a supportive writing community

A network of motivation and feedback is crucial, and building a supportive writing community can provide that. Engage with writing groups or online forums to create connections with fellow writers. These relationships offer a platform for discussing new ideas and share your experiences. Your writing community keeps you connected to the writing world, but can also inspire new work and collaborations. A strong community serves as a foundation for encouragement, critique, and the shared celebration of each other’s successes.

[daringyounggrayson]

For the batfam bingo hallucination with Bruce and Dick with Dick having the hallucinations, thank you

thanks for sending the prompt, i hope you like it!

“Hey, did anyone know that Scarecrow broke out of Arkham?” Dick asks into his communicator as he pursues Scarecrow.

“There was no alert,” Bruce replies. “Oracle?”

“Looking into it.”

“Stay back!” Scarecrow screams.

Dick ignores him, closing in on the man. In response, Scarecrow throws something at Dick, and anticipating a release of fear toxin, Dick quickly pops a rebreather in his mouth just before the device explodes.

But instead of the green-tinted cloud Dick was expecting, a thick, goo-like substance splatters over his face.

“Ugh,” Dick groans in disgust around the rebreather. He wipes the goo off his face, noticing that his skin tingles slightly where the goo touched it. He grabs an evidence bag and scrapes some of the goo into it. Then he takes out his rebreather, popping the goo-covered device into another evidence bag. “Gross.”

He pauses to scan the area, and the second he spots Scarecrow again, Dick sprints to chase after him. He presses his communicator to update the others. “He’s been experimenting with something new. Some kind of goo, possibly a topical form of fear toxin.”

“You alright?” Tim asks.

“What’s your location?” Bruce asks.

“It got on my face, but I’m not noticing any effects yet. And I’m near the old high school. I’m guessing Scarecrow took over the science lab.”

Dick probably has about fifteen minutes before the hallucinations get bad—plenty of time to subdue Scarecrow. And there’s a chance he won’t even have any hallucinations; it wouldn’t be the first time one of Scarecrow’s new experiments turned out to be a dud.

Dick picks up his pace to catch up with Scarecrow and watches as he disappears into the high school.

“I’m following Scarecrow into the high school,” Dick reports, crawling in through the same window Scarecrow used about thirty seconds earlier. “I’ll let you know when I subdue him.

“Let us know if you have any symptoms,” Barbara reminds him.

“ETA eight minutes,” Bruce says.

Dick silently makes his way through the halls of the old high school, listening carefully for Scarecrow. He heads toward the science labs on the second floor, figuring that’s his best bet. He sneaks up the stairs and turns the corner toward the labs, and as he approaches the closest one, he hears quick footsteps from behind the closed door of the lab. There’s the distinct sound of clinking glass, too.

The footsteps get closer to the door, and Dick ducks down to stay out of sight. Scarecrow bursts through the door, hands filled with notebooks and a glass vial of thick green goo.

Dick charges at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him into the wall, making him drop the notebooks and vial.

Dick swiftly catches the vial before it can hit the ground. “You’re getting a little too easy to catch,” Dick says with a sigh. He reaches into his pocket and trades the vial for some handcuffs. He’s securing the handcuffs around Scarecrow’s shaking wrists when the smell of smoke reaches his nose.

Shit.

“What did you do?” He asks Scarecrow angrily, swinging him around to grab him by the front of his shirt.

The smell of smoke is getting stronger, and Dick can make out flames in his peripheral. Crane is probably trying to dispose of evidence, taking with him only what he needs to restart his lab elsewhere.

The smoke alarms aren’t going off, Dick notes, and given that the building has been more-or-less abandoned for a couple of years now, he’s not counting on them to start.

With a growl, Dick tugs Scarecrow and starts to march him out of the building. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he asks.

The question was rhetorical, but he’s still a little surprised by Scarecrow’s silence.

They’ve just made it to the stairwell when he hears a scream—multiple screams.

Shit.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been running experiments on people,” Dick snarls, tightening his grip. Dick gives Scarecrow a shove. “Get out of the building. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll wait outside until I evacuate everyone and can deal with you. If you make me chase after you again, you’ll regret it.”

And with that, Dick is running back toward the labs. Into his communicator, he says, “Scarecrow set the high school on fire. The smoke detectors and sprinkler systems are down. I had to let Scarecrow go so I can get the civilians out.”

“How many civilians?” Bruce asks.

“Don’t know for sure yet, at least three,” Dick says as he turns into the hallway, the walls of which are now completely covered in flames. “Oracle, can you contact the fire department? I can’t contain this.”

“Putting in the request now.”

Dick breaks into a coughing fit as the smoke assaults his lungs. He’s kicking himself for not having a backup rebreather, but there’s no way he’s going to use the one covered in Scarecrow’s goo. For all he knows it combusts when exposed to excessive heat.

He cautiously enters the science lab, calling out for the civilians. None of them answer him directly, but they continue screaming. He grabs the fire extinguisher from the classroom so he can have it on hand in case they’re trapped behind a flaming door.

“I’m going to get you guys out,” Dick promises, hoping they can hear him. The smoke makes his eyes sting, and soon tears are streaming down his cheeks. He coughs again, throat and chest feeling too tight. “If you can hear me, shout out where you are.”

No answer, just the sounds of their screams and the building starting to collapse on itself. Dick runs back into the hall to move deeper into the school, checking through the window of each classroom he passes.

“Can anyone”—Dick coughs and coughs and coughs—“Can anyone hear me?” Dick shouts, desperation and panic leaking into his voice as he moves through the smoky and eerily empty hallways. Where could they be? Has he already moved past them?

His heart is pounding. He feels dizzy.

Dick stumbles, dropping the fire extinguisher with a clang. He catches himself on a water fountain at the last second and stays there for a moment too long before pushing himself off of it and continuing down the hall. He’s sweating from the flame’s heat, and it’s getting hard to see through the smoke.

The civilians’ screams and call for help continue and grow louder and more desperate, but instead of helping Dick pinpoint where they’re being kept, they only further disorient him. Have they been moving? Did they separate from each other?

Dick is all too aware that if he can’t pull himself together and come up with a plan soon, he could get everyone in this building killed. But he’s gasping for breath between coughing fits at this point and the lack of oxygen is making it hard to think. Blackspots dance in front of his eyes and cover at least half of his vision. He can’t get any air.

He sinks to his knees

“Nightwing, respond!” Batman’s impatient voice crackles in his ear through the communicator. It sounds like he’s been trying to get Dick’s attention for a while, though Dick can’t recall him speaking before now.

“I can’t find them,” Dick gasps, unsure if his line is open, if anyone can hear him.

He’s lying on the ground now, though he’s not quite sure when that happened. He feels like he’s about to pass out as flames lick at his gloved fingertips.

People are screaming, dying, and Dick just lies in the hallway, gasping for oxygen.

“Nightwing!” The voice doesn’t come through the communicator this time.

Hands tug at his shoulders, forcing him upright.

“Nightwing, why haven’t you been answering your comm? Report.”

“Find the civilians,” Dick says, pushing against Bruce to try to get free. “Where are the firefighters?”

“There are no civilians,” Bruce tells him, shaking him slightly. “There’s no fire. You’re hallucinating.”

Dick shakes his head. “The building’s on fire.” He coughs, chokes on the smoke.

Bruce shakes him again, harder this time. “You were exposed to some type of fear toxin. Fight it.”

Dick can’t get enough air to answer. How is Bruce able to talk through this much smoke?

Between one choked gasp and the next, Bruce pulls Dick over his shoulder and lifts him into a fireman’s carry. Dick clings to consciousness as he’s run out of the building, but he doesn’t have enough air to protest, doesn’t have enough air to demand Bruce go back and look for the civilians.

“Nightwing!”

Dick makes out Tim’s voice, and he notes the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks, he notes the firefighters standing around and doing absolutely nothing.

Dick is carried right past them and deposited in the Batmobile.

oOo

The old antidote, it turns out, doesn’t work very well on this new version of fear toxin. Bruce disappears to make a new one, taking Scarecrow’s notes, the vial of goo, Dick’s goo-filled evidence bags, and a sample of Dick’s blood with him. In the interim, Dick continues to hallucinate, this time convinced that the Batcave is on fire. Tim and Alfred stay with him and try to talk him down from his panic, but the results go from mixed to completely ineffective. At one point, the smoke inhalation feels so real that his body starts reacting accordingly. Alfred ends up having to put Dick on oxygen.

On top of that, Dick is allergic to the topical form of fear toxin, and an itchy rash breaks out over his face where the goo had touched him.

Dick finds himself dipping in and out of lucidness and swimming through various levels of panic, but eventually, Bruce is able to create a new antidote, and between that and the Benadryl for the allergic reaction, Dick’s back to normal in about two hours. It could’ve been a lot worse.

Still, Dick wishes it could’ve been a little less embarrassing.

“Were the firefighters mad?” Dick asks, voice hoarse from screaming.

Bruce pushes a water bottle at him. “No.”

“So they were totally cool with being dragged out there for nothing?” Dick asks, accepting the water bottle but not making any move to open it.

“They get false alarms all the time. It comes with the job.”

“All the time might be an exaggeration,” Dick points out.

“Hnn.” Bruce nods at the water. “Drink.”

Dick does.

Tim and Alfred have gone to bed, but Bruce is staying in cave with Dick so he can continue to monitor the new antidote. It’s part of their protocol to have a longer monitoring period for new antidotes so they can check for side effects and the like, and to make sure it doesn’t wear off. So far, it’s making Dick feel wired and jittery, like a ten-year-old who had way too much caffeinated soda at a party.

“But seriously—are they going to give Nightwing a hard time if I need to call in a fire?”

“No. They’re all familiar with the effects of fear toxin.”

Dick nods, because of course they are. First responders in Gotham kind of have to be.

“But if they do, they’ll have to answer to Batman.”

Dick can’t hold back his laugh. Bruce shoots him a look, but Dick just shakes his head in amusement.

“At least we managed to catch Scarecrow before he started distributing this stuff,” Dick says.

Bruce grunts in agreement.

Dick drinks some more of his water, mindful of how his hands still shake ever so slightly.

“I . . .” Bruce starts, stops. “How long has this been an issue?”

“How long has what been an issue?” Dick asks, capping the water bottle.

“Your fear of fire.”

Dick stiffens. “I’m not afraid of fire.”

“Dick, fear toxin doesn’t create fears for you.”

“Yeah, but it can exaggerate them,” Dick counters. “Are you seriously mad at me for reacting to fear toxin?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then what is this?”

“After we got you back to the cave, Tim mentioned that you’ve frozen before, when you two were caught in a fire.”

Dick closes his eyes, exhales slowly. Tim.

“We’re around fires a lot in this line of work. If you freeze, it could get you killed. You need to get this under control.”

Dick opens his eyes. “It is under control.” Does he still avoid bonfires? Sure. But that’s just a preference. He can and does run into burning buildings when the need arises.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound. But it’s clear that the silence is Bruce’s way of disagreeing with Dick, questioning him.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Dick insists. “What happened with Tim was just a fluke, and not to mention forever ago. You’ve seen me handle fires since then. I’m good now.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Well, I am,” Dick says. “It was fear toxin taking advantage of bad memories. That’s it. Now unless there’s anything else about me that you’d like to psychoanalyze, I’m going to take a shower.”

Dick hops off of the medical cot and stalks off toward the showers. Bruce lets him go.

And if Dick spends the next week losing sleep over nightmares about the circus and his old apartment building burning down, that’s no one’s business but his own. Because Dick is more than capable of handling this—and he will, he is.

[skellagirl]

I am, as usual, late lol, but Y'KNOW. This is gonna be a long, rambly post lol, sorry, I have a lot of thoughts.

2023 was a weird year for me, artwise. When it began I was still deep in my Art Block From Hell, which had begun in mid-2021 and lasted the entirety of 2022.

Being in the thick of such a ridiculously suffocating art block, for TWO AND A HALF YEARS, is like... I can't describe how fucking life-draining it is. It felt like something was fundamentally wrong with me -- like a part of me, which used to be as effortless as breathing or blinking my eyes, had ceased to function altogether. It wasn't just a regular art block, it was a complete identity crisis. I could no longer trust the instincts I'd honed over twenty-plus years, could no longer trust my sense of observation or my ability to recreate what I saw. I felt BROKEN, and every single time I picked up my tablet pen it was like I was scraping my insides with a spoon, trying to pick up whatever tiny dregs of dried-up, crusty shit I could manage to puke up onto my canvas. It was fucking painful and humiliating and completely demoralizing.

I'm not really sure what finally got me to do so, but sometime in summer (my memory is shit lol) I downloaded Game Maker, found a video tutorial on youtube, and just... gave myself over to it. I made myself learn how to use Aseprite, and working with pixels, making teeny-tiny little sprites, forced me to work in ways I usually don't. It was a lot harder for me to find the flaws in my art when my art was thirty-five pixels tall and the anatomy was stylized to communicate clear information rather than be a recreation or approximation of reality. I think I really do credit that time working on game dev as the thing that finally cracked loose all the gunk that was keeping me stuck -- I could not perpetuate the cycle of toxicity I'd fallen into because I could barely even conceptualize what 'good' or 'bad' pixel art even looked like lol. I just knew that I was making art, and for the first time in two years, it didn't feel like I was having to desperately beg the emaciated husks of my sense of self-worth and confidence to cooperate while doing so.

(I actually sort of abandoned my foray into game dev around August/September lol, as my adhd-brain, flitting around like a little hummingbird to every dopamine-rich-flower, is wont to do 🥲 But I wanna get back into it at some point!)

From there I had a rush of inspiration for an original project I've been mulling around in my head for years, and I wrote thousands of words in my worldbuilding document, made a map, developed the shell of a possible actual STORY. I returned to sketching. Conventional sketching. It was, at first, largely still comprised of that same demotivating struggle against myself, but I was so deep in the throes of inspiration (after several years of this project laying dormant in my google drive) that I NEEDED to sketch. So I kept going. And after a while, it got....... easier. And I started hating everything I made a little less. I painted, properly, for the first time in years. I stayed up late into the night, even if it meant I would be tired at work the next day, because drawing felt so damn GOOD again and I had missed that feeling so much. All I wanted to do was draw. For the first time in two and a half years, I could finally see the light at the end of the fucking tunnel.

I still don't think I'm quite out of the woods yet. My style is changing, as all artists' styles do over time, and that comes with stumbling adjustments. My confidence is still small and shaky and recovering; I still catch myself second-guessing what I've drawn, and even looking at some of the things here on my grid makes me cringe a little bit for one reason or another.

But compared to both 2021 and 2022, the volume of art, and in particular the volume of art I don't actively despise, is WAY higher, and I'm really really hopeful that that means I'm finding my footing again.

So! Here's to 2024, and to continuing to move towards the light at the end of the tunnel 🙏🌟 I'm gonna try.

[tiredstressedemotionalmess]

hiyaaa would you care to share some kobra thoughts cause im thinking about him again

(aka: in the process of dying my hair and have to wait for an hour :/)

YESSSSS OKAY-

oh my god i just wrote like four paragraphs that i realized were basically just a summary of shut talked abt in the next ttid chapter since that chapter 90% just Kobra Kid Thoughts atm soooo this is take two with lighter shit that Isnt just basically spoilers lmao

- he has heterochromia, one eye's green and the others brown (dont ask me which is which i have it written down somewhere but i dont remember rn 😭) this fact is very important to me and is something i gotta bring up when i go back and edit past ttid chapters

- he looooves old karate movies, an obsession which was sparked very early on in his time in the zones. the doc has a collection of old tapes and shit, one of which was the karate kid! yk thing abt how every transmasc has a dude from an 80s movie that they wanna steal the gender of?? yeah. kobra's is danny larusso

- one of the few things thats consistent between pretty much all versions of kobra's story in my head is that, a few months after he gets out to the zones he and poison get into a huge fight that causes them to part ways for a 1-2 year period

- its during that ^ year when kobra finds his bike in what he thinks is an abandoned warehouse. it is Not Abandoned but it's fine. i mean, if those other guys really wanted to keep their bike, they wouldve put up more of a fight right? kobra certainly wouldn't have stopped after a few broken bones if he were in their position anyways

- ZERO self preservation instincts. he absolutely thinks he can win every single fight he gets into, which lead him to picking fights with people either a lot bigger than him or a lot more skilled and it doesnt always end well!

-this also extends to animals but in a sort of opposite way. this fucking dumbass will just pick up any fucking creature to try and pet it bc he thinks if it attacks him hell be able to handle it. he does this with snakes a lot in particular- the amount of fucking heart attacks jets had bc he sees kobra just. picking up snakes she was taught to avoid her entire life bc Venom,,,

- i like the idea that hes got a streak of red in his hair to match party's, and party has a blonde streak in theirs to match his :]

- the venom siblings also have matching snake tattoos that wrap around one of their arms. they get them a little while after reconciling from that huge fight and year apart and shit- its sort of a reminder that theyre family, even on the days where they have to hold back from killing each other

- jet is kobra's favorite person to go on supply runs with bc he thinks shes the one out of the crew with the best music taste (second to him of course) and theyre really good at negotiating together bc they are both intimidating in just the right, slightly different ways

- kobra also likes jet a lot bc they know enough abt mechanics to be able to hold a conversation with him, whereas party never has a single clue what hes talking about. and then when ghoul comes along kobra is like "oh okay im in love with you now" bc ghoul actually knows A Lot abt mechanics and bikes and cars and actually maybe he knows more than kobra so kobra's all "yeah okay ur mine now ur gonna talk to me abt bikes for hours rn rn rn" like an excited puppy

- i think kobra is also the more tech savvy of the group. ghoul and jet are old fucking men when it comes to that shit bc theres not a lot of computers in the zones. but kobra was really into technology back in the city, way more than party, so hed the one responsible for hacking the vending machines or dealing with the computers and security shit when they break into bli buildings

- at some point the kid finds an old laptop and that becomes his other project. when theres nothing to work on with his bike, hes trying to get that laptop working. when he does get the laptop working, he finds a bunch of old 2000s era memes saved onto it that he ends up referencing constantly despite not knowing what the fuck theyre talking about (im like 90% sure i got this idea from a fic or something i read *years* ago but idk what it was and i havent been able to find it so someone plz lmk if any of that sounds familiar 💀)

[yarnandink]

Turns out that today marked the ninth anniversary of my learning how to knit!

Nine years ago today, I successfully cast on by myself, and managed to knit flat stockinette stitch without accidentally adding stitches!

I've come a long way since that project, with some ambitious finished objects, some even more ambitious WIPs and a to-do project list and stash that'll probably last me at least another nine years!

Longer and slightly maudlin retrospective below the cut. CW for parent death.

Nine years ago wasn't the first time I'd tried to learn how to knit - Mum tried to teach me in my teens. It... didn't go well.

Between my untreated anxiety and perfectionism demanding that I be perfect immediately or abandon all attempts as a permanent failure, and Mum's seeming inability to find ways to help me learn how to hold yarn to maintain tension or - more crucially - relax tension, it became an unmitigated disaster which led to me rage-quitting and flouncing off to feel sorry for myself.

She never did get to try to teach me again, later.

And then, ten years ago I picked up fabric, embroidery floss, hoops and needles and hyperfixated on cross-stitch embroidery. I stitched on public transport, in pubs, basically anywhere I could. And somehow in that year my fingers finally learnt to feel when the thread had reached the right tension - enough to pull the stitches taut without warping the fabric.

And after a year of that, I saw a video on arm knitting, assumed I'd be able to do it (I was wrong) and then bought chunky needles to match the chunky yarn, so as not to let the yarn go to waste.

And suddenly, FINALLY, something clicked and I managed to knit. Clumsily at first, but I wasn't pulling the yarn so tightly that I couldn't even insert a needle into the stitches on the return row. My fingers had learnt when to stop.

First I learnt knit and purl. Then I dove straight into basic lace (yarnovers and knit-two-togethers). I figured out my own overcomplicated way of holding and tensioning my yarn. From there, I played once with DPNs, then abandoned the "grumpy hedgehog" for magic loop on circular needles and never looked back.

I began adding changes and personal touches to patterns, then began developing my own patterns. Some of which I've even written down!

I discovered luxury yarns and independent dyers, met fellow knitters and made friends. I once knit on public transport in full Halloween costume (as a punk mermaid), to the fascination and amusement of many fellow passengers.

I learnt how to undo mistakes - how to forgive myself for making them, how to mitigate, or undo them. How to know when a mistake was fixable and when it would be easier to start all over again. And - more crucially - I learnt to let myself embrace that, how to let the mistakes be okay, to forgive myself for making them and focus on fixing them and learning from them, instead of beating myself up for making them.

I stopped biting my fingernails, a habit I'd had since age 2, which I'd previously thought was unbreakable. I discovered that when I could knit, I was less anxious, less depressed and more settled and centred.

I inherited a bunch of Mum's yarn stash which my sister had been keeping safe, and used some of it to make a big drapey-sleeved shrug, which I describe as being like wearing a hug from Mum.

I've now knit blankets and jumpers and fingerless gloves and hats and intricate lace shawls.

This year I plan to finally try to master custom-fit socks. Though I have a baby blanket to make first, for a colleague.

I wish I could show Mum how far I've progressed as a knitter - I wish I could show her that I'm carrying on a traditional craft into a third generation (her own mother was also an excellent knitter) - that I know of.

I can't, of course. But that's okay. I've also learnt how to be proud of myself, enough for the both of us!

[littlebeethings]

Like a Girl

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Reader Word count: 705 Warnings: None, just fluff Summary: Marcus finds you and Missy cooking in the kitchen listening to Lizzo’s Like a Girl. This is in the same universe as In the Morning Light. AKA Reader and Marcus adopted Missy.

The little home in the countryside vibrated with the beat coming through the speakers you had installed throughout the house. You were in the kitchen with the windows and doors open letting the fall breeze blowing through the house. Missy stood beside you at the counter mixing cake batter. She was singing along with you and it made you tingle. Beside you stood this little girl who made you a mom singing a song about being a girl makes you strong and capable. When Missy came into your life you knew you wanted to raise her to be the strong, confident, independent woman you had spent half your life trying to be. And here she was. 

“Got nothing to prove, but I show you how I do,” you sang together, throwing your hips back and forth to the beat.

“And I throw it like a girl,” you sang.

“Like a girl,” Missy sang.

You took the cake pan and moved it to the oven. When you turned around, your daughter was cleaning up, dancing, and singing at the top of her lungs. You danced towards each other and began belting your favorite part.

“So if you fight like a girl, cry like a girl, do your thing, run the whole damn world. If you feel like a girl, then you’re real like a girl. Do your thing, run the whole damn world.”

Marcus came home from another long day at Heroics. Having stepped off the field a year prior after a mission that almost took him from you and Missy, he now worked behind the scenes but it was just as much work, if not more. But coming home and finding his two favorite women made everything better.

He watched you two dance in the kitchen, flour on your faces and in your hair. It brought back memories of when Missy always wanted to be held out of fear of being abandoned again. You would pick her up and dance around the house with her on your hip as you did chores. 

“Can we listen to it again?” Missy asked as the song ended.

“Sure, sweet pea, we can listen to it again.” You pressed play on your phone and the house filled with the beat again.

Marcus leaned against the doorframe as you and Missy’s face got close together. He smiled as you sang. He never imagined ten years ago that this was going to be his life. Hell, twenty years ago he would never have imagined having these two women in his life but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

You looked over at him and smiled.

“Hello, love,” you smiled, going over and kissing his cheek. “How was your day?”

“Better now,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. Marcus dropped his bag on the chair just before Missy ran to hug him. His strong arms wrapped around her and squeezed tight. You two were his whole world.

Marcus cooked dinner while you and Missy took care of dessert. You ate at the dining table sharing stories of your day. Missy showed Marcus the A she got on a recent project. Marcus was so proud of her. When she left to brush her teeth and get ready for movie night, Marcus turned towards you.

“We did good,” you said as he intertwined his fingers with yours.

“You did good,” he said. “Every little girl deserves to have someone like you in their life.”

You looked down to where your hands met.

“I mean it, mi amor. She’s watched you work your ass off to get where you are at work. She’s watched you be kind and caring but sees that those traits also make you strong.” He chuckled, “You’ve shown her that you don’t need me or any man to live the life you want. You are an amazing mother.”

You rub his hand with your thumb.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

Marcus leaned over and kissed you.

“I may not need you, Marcus Moreno, but I want you. More than anything.”

“I know.”

You were silent for a long moment, enjoying the time together.

“You gonna put me on my knees later?” Marcus asked.

“Absolutely.”

[blakbonnet]

I was tagged by Jams @not-nervous-jester to share my writing process so here you go, I'm sorry but this will get a bit long and it'll not be proofread cause life's too short (and my laptop has 4% battery left) 🙃

Do you write in order?

Yes and No. I start off any writing project (whether it be fanfic or work) with a detailed outline of the major plot points. I do the endings first more often than not when I'm planning a fic, then the middle, and finally, once those are out of the way, then I'll tackle the beginning kinda.

Because I write like a person possessed, the beginnings sort of just happen on their own but I need a guideline for hitting the major points or it will be all out of whack.

How fully formed does your writing come out the first try?

About 100%. Because I am so incredibly stupid and anal about this stuff, my first try is essentially a weighty tome of garbage. You can only throw out the garbage once I'm done, you can't add more to it. I guess this analogy doesn't work but it works in terms of the ✨ vibe ✨ I'm trying to create, stay with me people!

How many drafts do you go through?

Just one actually. If there is stuff in the first draft that I am not okay with, I will stop writing and simply leave it for a week or a month until I feel like picking it up again later 😐 The only time I actually create a new draft is when parts of the original are unreadable. Actually I'm lying, I just add stuff to the first draft while whistling and being inconspicuous.

Tell me about your process.

First comes the playlist. It HAS to start with a playlist. Every project has a separate playlist. Songs can be repeated, playlists cannot be the same though. It's a thing, and if I don't do it, it'll be a whole separate thing tbh.

The playlist has to be instrumental, it has to be mainly cellos and violins for the meatier scenes, piano is okay for the fluffy non-plot filler bits that I'm writing for my own entertainment. There can be no words or bits of the fic will turn into a Metallica song, I'll be sued, I'll lose everything and most importantly, the fic would never be finished.

Next comes the poetry, stuff that is actually inspiring the work and pushing it forward. That usually goes in tumblr drafts so it's easier for me to access from my phone. This is usually screenshots from e-books or actual pictures from physical books.

Because I do a fairly detailed outline beforehand, I usually start writing the beginning because that's what I haven't planned out yet and am most excited by. This takes me the longest amount of time and I also do a LOT of rewriting at this stage because personally, as a reader, I do abandon a lot of fics if the beginning isn't doing it for me.

I use google sheets cause I'll sometimes reread my stuff over the phone but I only ever write on the laptop, my phone is mainly for rereading and obsessing.

I also edit as I go along based on feel and make notes where I need to add stuff. If I edit later once I'm done, it usually doesn't come out like I want it to.

Once chapters are done, I copy paste them into Google Translate so I can hear them being read back to me. I catch a record number of missed typos and errors this way. I'm very conscious of the way I write dialogues because I'm so nitpicky when I'm reading other people's dialogues and this also allows me to correct issues with those (the "he would never fucking say it like that" errors)

After the first couple chapters, I'll share the google doc with mutuals and friends (mostly Ara @stedebonnets ) and I don't have a beta reader. Plot points I'll discuss with Josh and Joy 😭 and I don't publish fics on ao3 until the entire thing is written cause I'm a big stinking fic abandoner lmao (smauglock fic from 5 years ago rip 🪦 sorry readers)

This is the writing process that went into Need for Stede ✌️which was incredibly fun to write!

I'd like to tag @wearfinethingsalltoowell @abigailpents @talkstoself @red-sky-in-mourning @ratchet @stedebonnit and anyone else who wants to do this!

[not-this-guy]

Once again, picking at your brain for your thoughts

What’re your reasons/ideas behind your top hc’s for Bro

i'm brain dead right now after a full shift so let me give you the long short list and a more general explanation of my general fascination with this guy

the basis of my takes and hcs on bro stem from approaching him and viewing him as a person who is flawed and wrong and misguided, but a person and not a generic one faced boogeyman. he is an abuser, he has a lack of boundaries and he has violent tendencies, but i don't look at it in a vacuum because unlike dave who's only ever seen what bro allowed him to see, we can look at him as a whole.

i picked him up a couple years ago in a group roleplay server, mainly as a "i don't trust anyone else to write him/haha wouldn't it be funny if" and since then he's been living rent free in my head - but he's out grown what canon gave us.

and the fundamentals of that are:

0 | SPITE, DISGUST AND FRUSTRATION: he is a fascinating character in his own right, but goddamn is he polarising and one prone to settle in the extremes of fandom perception to the point that people have to fucking tag him as a trigger warning nowadays, which makes people unwilling to interact and engage in more nuanced discussions of him out of avoidance of being harassed which is understandable. however this kind of left him as a character to the wolves, and now a lot of his more recent works and his entire tag in general in whatever site you use has been trashed by incestuous pedophiles - which makes people even less wiling to interact with the concepts brought up in his character. and honestly fuck that. i'm willing to endure dealing w their bullshit directly n i'm willing to call these people what they are (groomers sharing csa material for personal gratification and desensitisation) and i'm not giving them free reign of bro's tag anymore. these freaks should be rightfully shunned and mocked and judged where ever they go because they're too deep in self-denial to ever change.

I | EXTRAPOLATION: with alpha dirk's introduction we were left with a question, how could this kid end up like his beta session self? what could possibly drive the dirk we grow to like and see multiple facets of become this shell of a man? and boy do i love assuming and explaining shit away for people who are barely characters in their own right. free reign to do whatever i want baby.

II | BRAIN DAMAGE: the answer to that question is to chip away at the soul and to scramble a man's sense of reality. i haven't really been in the headspace for it but id love to one day fully explore the horrors of Bro and Lil Cal's codependency for those 30 some years. with that as a base (but not an excuse) i started to slowly piece him back together, and working with the 'undesirables' of mental illness. he is an unmedicafed paranoid schizophrenic with hoarding tendencies who was diagnosed with aspergers as a child... and then punished for it, being effectively abandoned by the system to fates whims and blamed for never having his needs met. his one solid connection at any point in time was lil cal. but instead of villanizing him for having these traits... i see him as someone who was trying to help, but was misguided by his closest confidant and blinded by his over controlling paranoid nature and compulsory need to one up people. everything bro did, he did to help dave... he just never stopped to think about if he was going about it the right way, because he saw dave as an extension of himself and thus of course thought his behaviour was appropriate, because he is acting as who he wished he had when he himself was a kid.

III | PROJECTING AND RELATABILITY: damn he just like me fr. aka on top of all of that, i've grown to attach some of my own traits onto him and vice versa as a means of coping with my own backstory and as a backwards way of acknowledging that my feelings are valid... by allowing bro strider of all people to also go through them and changing myself to have compassion for him.

there's more but look i forgot and m done eating my cold burger.

[plushpinkfox]

ok fine

so i know i already did a whole "i'm so excited about this!!" post but i wanted to flesh one out a little bit more now that we're down to less than six hours till the movie releases.

i think i first picked up a copy of the school for good and evil in 2015, but it could have been earlier. i found it on the shelves of my local library while i was still in middle school, and i was TRANSPORTED. and every time i open a copy nowadays, i can still remember that feeling.

i remember being so invested in the initial twist. i remember my heart racing while i read through the trial by tale. i remember a big smile on my face when agatha realized she was beautiful all along. i remember getting so excited and wiggling around while i read the ball proposal scene. i remember putting my book down in shock as sophie and agatha disappeared.

and most of all, i remember the girls. i remember identifying with both of them: sophie's pathological need to be loved and agatha's incredible lack of self-confidence. but also, how much they did ultimately love each other, despite their whole fairytale trying to pull them apart.

so i bought all the books (even red school! a terrible sacrifice). and i made an account on the website. and i watched entv videos. and i wrote goodreads reviews. and i waited, patiently, as did so many others, for news of the universal pictures project to finally follow through on the rights they purchased. when the netflix announcement came through, i celebrated. i made friends with kate in august of 2020 and we've been talking ever since. i became mutuals with soman chainani on twitter and spoke to him with the golden ticket contest. i made a tumblr fan account and accidentally helped shut down the entire forum section of the sge website. i made analysis posts and promised to make more that i just completely forgot about. and i had such a damn good time doing it all.

hearing the netflix news was so exciting and it hasn't stopped since. we are FINALLY at the end of the road for the first film. to be frank, i couldn't care less if it does well critically. i think paul feig put his all into making an adaptation that caters to what the fans want to see. i think the cast tried their hardest to emulate the characters we all know and love. i think this movie looks absolutely gorgeous, and i am so excited to see all the cringe and camp and camaraderie and care that comes from it. i am so excited to see the culmination of the last seven-odd years of fandom devotion that i have been waiting for.

this isn't a "last post" sort of deal, but i feel like this is the end of an era so to speak. maybe we'll get movies in the future, and i'll come right back here and get to make this whole dramatic speech again. maybe soman will continue the series somehow in more corny ways and i'll get to rag on those for years to come. maybe i'll outgrow it all and abandon this account and never come back! (not today, but someday i suppose). in the meantime, i will just enjoy this moment. i will get back to you with movie feedback after i am done watching it at 3am est.

with love.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Daily Log 4

Trying out (probably just temporarily) making short daily-ish notes about things, in an attempt to see if it helps me be more reflective or productive lol.

Activities: Woke up late because I went back to sleep with a headache briefly, then kind of struggled to focus all day ToT

Worked more on the aforementioned tapestry/painting type of thing. I've done the base layer of painting for the main image, now I'm lining in darker outlines. I wanted to finish the center art before getting into the intricate borders. Still haven't translated the text lol..

Made a small bowl and also a little box with a lid out of more avocado pits. Still just with random nail cuticle tool things and kitchen knives, as I don't have proper carving tools.

Finished editing and proofreading the new poll adventure post!! I don't have time to post it tonight because I need to get to sleep early but.. I have it Completely 100% Ready.. finally..

Also washed the clothes I got together yesterday. Called about the bloodwork. Sent an email to a doctor.

Reviewed some writing documents to get back into my game maybe?? (basically, I started working on a visual novel type game a few years ago, decided it was a huge project so kind of put it on the backburner for a while in favor of things that were more easily finishable/tangible. then later on a game website I play (similar to neopets or something, there are collectable little creatures, etc.) there was an opportunity for me to design a pet on site, so I made a smaller shorter visual novel centered around that, where people on the site have to play the game in order to earn the pet, and I have a google form for them to answer a few short questions about it. All of the feedback is quite positive (reached 200 responses a while ago! though still only like 4 comments on the itch.io page lol.. Mandatory Form vs. Optional Comments evil showdown), but sometimes I get commentary that's really enthusiastic and inspires me to start back working on the OTHER bigger game. The small game was kind of like, a proof of concept that was safe because I had a guaranteed audience, that has helped me gain more insight for the larger one.

Anyway, since I've abandoned the Main Large Game for so long, I have to re-read and review/probably rewrite A LOT of things just to pick it back up again as A Thing I'm Actively Working On, so it's another one of those tasks that I do maybe 45 minutes of and then realize it's going to take days and days and get discouraged lol..

Notable sights: Saw two cats in windows. No clovers. It rained a little today but I didn't get to go outside and see it. One of the pieces of asparagus in the fridge was like the size of a carrot, comically overgrown downright ridiculous looking asparagus. Maybe I'll get taller after eating it.

Goals moving forward: Consistent sleep schedule. Focus on social activities, finding new friends in the places I want to move, communicating with ones I have. Physical therapy exercises. Plant nasturtiums. Finish and upload videos, edit costume pictures & etc.

Notable foods: ASPARAGUS AGAIN BABEY.. yeaAAAAGHHH asparagus squad !!!!!!

[walkawaytall]

For the fanfic emoji ask game (please and thank you!)

📚 Would you ever want to turn writing into a career?

So, I have wanted to be a paid author since I was like���9 I think. I used to always have a novel in the works (and I technically still do) with the hopes of someday writing something publishable. The whole reason I started writing Star Wars fanfic earlier this year was actually because the novel I’ve worked on off and on for like a decade was making me feel crazy. The plot kept eating itself and I couldn’t make decisions about how to go about some things and I was just obsessing over bits of it that probably don’t matter that much. I really wanted to write for fun again, and I figured fanfiction could be a good way to do that since I don’t even have it in the back of my head that I could someday publish it. (If I wasn’t writing for something with such intense world-building as Star Wars, I might tempted to file the serial numbers off and try for being published, but…y’all have seen my endless whining about just coming up with names for characters. Do I sound like someone who wants to do a bunch of fresh world-building to cram my lightly edited fanfiction into to make it legally publishable?) And I was just getting back into Star Wars after three years of feeling personally victimized by The Rise of Skywalker, so it seemed an obvious choice.

I’ve mainly written grounded-in-reality YA fiction in the past and may try to pick that up again. I was reminded recently of a project I had started years ago and then abandoned in 2016 that I actually really like. The only reason I dropped it was because it involves the topic of eating disorders and ~*guess who was in the middle of a relapse in 2016*~. It just wasn’t healthy for me at the time to have everything I did, including my hobbies, be centered on the mental illness I was struggling with. But I’m, like, six solid years behavior-free at this point, so I might pick that project up again and see if anyone would be interested in it because I do think it’s a somewhat fresh take on the topic that I haven’t really seen elsewhere.

This was a really long way to say “yes, and I may even try to do it someday!”

Thank you for the question!

Fanfic Writer Emoji Ask

[trappedwriter]

Trapped - Chapter 1

March 3rd, 2017

Jessica’s POV

Standing in my closet pondering over what outfits look good, a familiar sound snaps me out of my deep thoughts. Abandoning the clothes, I rush over to my phone with excitement. “It’s only been up for 10 minutes, I wonder how many likes I’ve gotten” I thought.

Opening the app I felt a spike of excitement when I saw someone had left a comment "Go to www.Iwantabigdick.com to make your dreams come true." My heart sinks. Maybe I need more hashtags, I’m too fat I should take it down and edit it more, why aren’t I getting the same attention as other influencers, I’m practically copying them.” The same thoughts run through my mind every time. Throwing my phone back on my bed, I continue outfit planning.

An hour passed, and I finally have planned all my outfits for the next two weeks. I found this really cute denim patched jacket online and wanted to create multiple outfits with it. I paired it with a floral dress, some faux leather pants and even made a denim on denim look. I think Britney & Justin would be proud if they saw my outfit.

I check my phone again, only a couple more likes, and you guessed it more bot comments. “Ugh I’m so sick of them, why can’t Instagram just get rid of them. It’s not like they’re helping me get more exposure”.

My Instagram page is filled with brightly coloured clothes modelled against simple backgrounds. I’m very proud of my page. Long hours spent planning and researching. Pouring my heart and soul into it. Just trying to be best influencer out there. The potential for greatness is there, they just can’t see it. I gotta do something big, something bold. Then they’ll see. Then I’ll finally get the attention I deserve.

—————————————————————————

The weekend came and went really quickly. All the outfits I planned out yesterday are now photographed. I’ll have a busy editing week ahead of me. It was such a gloomy weekend. It rained all the time which resulted in me having to take my outfit pics in various establishments.

I live in a small town called New Market born and raised here, everyone knew everything about each other. Like me, my parents died in a car crash when I was 3. I had no other family, so I was placed in the foster system. Eventually, I was adopted by lovely Sarah and Tom Bell. They must have had a kink for wanting a big family cause although they couldn’t produce any of their own, they sure as hell had a lot of kids. 6 including me. Only 4 months after adopting me, they adopted another 5 more kids.

Last year Tom & Sarah decided that New Market was no longer their forever home and moved to California. I decided to stay as the little town held so many memories for me. Like when I fell off the slide and lost my first tooth, my first (and only) kiss, and my high school prom.

I had a part time job working in a thrift store. It’s not my ideal job but it meant I was able to provide for myself, plus I got first picks of new clothes that came in but I wouldn’t want someone else’s hand-me-downs. And yet, despite the fact that I graduated high school and I have a job, the locals still give me dirty looks as I set up my camera for the shots. Just because I didn’t go to college and instead decided to follow my dream meant that they could just sit there and judge me. No doubt gossiping about me too.

Being an influencer has been a dream of mine ever since I first started watching YouTube videos of beauty gurus back in 2015. Although Tom & Sarah never really cared about what I did, they were adamant that I finish high school before starting any silly projects. They didn’t understand that this wasn’t silly, I could get popular and become rich and famous. As soon as I got home from my graduation, I got straight to work. I tried the whole YouTube thing, but sitting down and filming took forever, the hours of filming and editing wasn’t worth the hundred or so views I got. That’s when I decided that Instagram was going to be my main focus.

Chapter 2

[pinkiepiebones]

*sticks my leggy up* do u perhaps have any fun little hcs about the individual band ghouls?

-The Earth ghoul behind the drums is perhaps most equatable to Data from Star Trek TNG in it's statements of fact and misunderstanding of things like sarcasm or innuendo. This ghoul, who is aware the fans call it Mountain, once picked up one of it's stuffed goats and placed it on it's shoulder then told Special //THIS GOAT IS AN EXCELLENT MOUNTAIN CLIMBER. I HAVE MADE A JOKE.// Special was so proud, he dragged the ghoul to every crew member in the tour so the Earth ghoul could tell it's excellent joke. :3

-The Fire ghoul behind the guitar attends most band practices by standing on the ceiling or a wall, only bothering with any glamours during the final dress rehearsals.

-The Water ghoul bassist has a fascination with that glittery slime stuff you can find now in the clearance bin of toy shops.

-The Aether ghoul has horns strongly resembling those of a pronghorn antelope's, and it has a large crack in the right horn*. If asked where it got the crack, it will tell a different story every single time.

-Contrary to popular belief, ghouls do not headbutt. Well, most don't. Cirrus and Cumulus used to. A lot. Ghouls don't have nervous systems and don't feel pain** so they mostly just bashed heads and horns like you might high five your friends or work associates. They had to learn to stop doing this and in fact learn to high five and fist bump instead because Copia would wince every time their heads butted- either due to imagining what that felt like, or due to the sound, which was somewhat like a crack of thunder in an abandoned auditorium factory.

-The ghoul known as Swiss is a Water ghoul. There has never been a multiple-element-tethered ghoul in the church's entire history***.

-Sunshine was the Air ghoul in Papa Nihil's band back in 1969, and it's name at the time was Anemoi^. After the band project failed, Sunshine went back to Hell. It's remarkable that it reformed out of the primordial hell ooze so many years later... Him Below works in mysterious ways!

-When learning to form teeth and jaws and mimic singing, Cumulus in particular liked to try it's shapeshifted teeth on any surface it could find. Bite victims include but are not limited to: Special's tail, Copia's hand, numerous water bottles, the keyboard, Aether's horns, cables, amps, bus tires, bus bumpers, Special's tail again, numerous plushies, apples, Cumulus's own hand, and a raw egg. It is quite proud of it's teeth and jaw!

*[A ghoul's physical body may incur injury such as cracks or breaks in a horn or tears in a wing. These cause no trouble to the ghoul and can be fixed by a quick visit to Hell for a swim in the primordial sulfurous ooze from which all ghouls emerge.]

**[Well, they can feel what we might understand to be pain. It's hard to articulate in words. Special offers, "okej so imagine like, you know how for you humans, the sound of nails dragging around a chalkboard makes you go all kshshsjdjssjsjsjsjskddkk?? A pain for a ghoul is like that, but internal. Our entire beings go all, ehhhhhh, kchshchsdddjshk. Yeah? No good."]

***[Special INSISTS there is a ghoul tethered by all five elements called the Avatar Ghoul. "I seen it in Hell!" Special insists. We don't listen.]

^[Papa Nihil's band ghouls were named, to Nihil's best efforts, after Latiny/Greeky sounding words- Pyro, Aqua, Terra, and Anemoi.]

[marypsue]

for the WIP ask meme, trust that i'm exercising great control in picking only three. i would be so honoured to hear about: 1) circus luna draft 2 2) groundhog day but it's halloween and every time bob newby dies it get faster 3) relativity falls but it’s stranger things. :-) <3

Hello friend! It took me entirely too long to answer this because in between you sending it and me answering it, holiday happened. Whoops. 

1) circus luna draft 2

This is an original fiction project that’s near and dear to my heart, that’s been trapped in the writer equivalent of development hell for over a decade now. It’s almost entirely unrecognisable now from what it started out as, save for the very basics: it’s a Kids On Bikes story where the primary antagonist is an evil, supernatural circus. 

The current elevator pitch for Circus Luna is ‘Stephen King’s IT meets Karyn Kusama and Diablo Cody’s Jennifer’s Body’. The main cast of characters, over the years, has morphed into a group of five friends, who face the circus once as teenagers and then have to face it again as adults, when they’ve all come to doubt what it was they experienced when they were young. I’ve talked a little more about the premise and the characters here and here. There’s also an inspiration tag on my blog, here.

I won’t share a sample, because I’m hoping to publish this professionally someday in the (far distant) future and apparently that can become a Problem if parts that end up in the final draft have already been posted somewhere. But I can promise that it includes: 

growing up queer in a small rural town in the early aughts!

the seductive appeal and selective memory of nostalgia!

emo hair!

the power of cultural narratives to impact our personal lives!

star-crossed, tragic romance!

Halloween vibes!

the painful, difficult, but ultimately rewarding experience of growing up, and how to mourn the things that are naturally and inevitably lost along the way! 

Goffs Vs. Prepz!

the corrosive nature of fear!

having crushes on all your friends!

trains!

BUGSSSSSSSSSS

and, perhaps most importantly: 

the Power of Friendship (and My Chemical Romance)!

2) groundhog day but it's halloween and every time bob newby dies it get faster

This is Exactly What It Says On The Tin! It’s a oneshot in three chapters set during season 2 of Stranger Things, wherein Bob Newby gets trapped in a time loop and somehow has to solve the overarching mystery of s2 using only the information everybody has up to the point where he dies, if he wants to save the people he loves and also himself. And also, he and Joyce and Hopper are all going to get to kiss. 

I don’t know how much of an audience there is out there for Bob Newby-POV adult-monster-hunting-trio fic out there, but hey, I’ve written weirder shit. 

Because I can, here’s a sample:

...

Jim throws the breaker and then hovers while Bob taps through the series of commands and prompts to unlock each of the doors in turn, pacing and scanning the hulking shapes of the boiler and whatever other equipment is stored down here, with the machine gun held at the ready and a scowl on his face. Finally, Bob has to abandon his task to say something. “Would you please pick a spot and stand there? You’re making me nervous.”

“You’re not already nervous?” Jim cracks, with something Bob thinks is trying to become a smile. But he does stop pacing. “Jesus. Forgot. This must all be old hat for you by now.”

“Yeah. But you never really get used to it,” Bob says, turning back to the glowing black screen. Beside him, Jim gives a little huff that might almost be a laugh.

“Got that right.”

They’re both quiet, for a few minutes after that, the only sound in the room the rattle of Bob’s fingers over the keys.

“That’s the exit doors back online,” he says, coming to the end of the string of commands. “Joyce and the kids should start heading out.”

Jim nods. But he doesn’t immediately pass the information along. “You really don’t think we’re gonna get out of here alive. Do you.”

Bob looks at the computer screen to avoid having to look at Jim’s face. “Well, hope springs eternal.” He lets out a long breath, and decides he can afford to offer Jim a little of that hope. “I’ve never had you here with me before. And I’m sure you’re a much better shot than I am.”

Jim’s quiet, for a long moment. When he does speak, it’s into the walkie-talkie. “Newby says to start moving out. Exit doors are online.”

Bob takes that as his cue, and for a few minutes more, the only thing he thinks about is the screen and the keyboard in front of him, turning on sprinklers and setting off alarms to draw the monsters away from Joyce and the kids, based on the directions the doc relays via walkie-talkie. It’s like some kind of video game, trying to control the movement of a bunch of distant characters through a maze full of enemies without getting them killed. Just with impossibly real stakes.

Bob can’t keep the thought from forming in his head, though. “Why are you here? We both want to get Joyce and the kids out of here safe, I’m sure they could use your marksmanship more than I can.”

Jim shrugs, shoulders tight, the smallest possible gesture. “Told you. I know Nancy Wheeler can handle herself. And if you got eaten on the way down here, we’d all be fucked.”

They’re pretty well fucked anyway. And Bob doesn’t get much time alone with Jim like this, not late enough in a loop that he’s earned a little trust. Maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s knowing that, if and when they do loop, Jim won’t remember anything about this conversation. Or maybe it’s just a combination of masochism and morbid curiosity that makes Bob say it. “You’re in love with Joyce, aren’t you.”

Jim whirls to face him, wide-eyed, startled, like he’s just been goosed. He doesn’t say anything, at first, just stares.

When he finally does speak, it sounds strangled. “I’m not enough of a prick to let you get killed just so I’d have a shot at your girl, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Obviously you’re not, or you wouldn’t be here,” Bob points out. “I’m just – trying to figure it out. What I got myself into. What’s going on between you two.”

Jim cracks a humourless grin, at that. “Some puzzles I guess even the Brain can’t solve.”

He turns his back to Bob again, watching the door. Bob thinks the conversation’s over until Jim says, quietly, “You’re good for her. She deserves something, somebody like you in her life. Stable. Sane. Normal.”

“Not so much of any of those anymore, apparently,” Bob half-jokes, half to himself.

Jim goes on like he hasn’t heard. Maybe he hasn’t. “Joyce hasn’t had a lot of good things come her way. I don’t wanna fuck this one up for her.”

“She might want you to,” Bob offers.

Jim looks a little stunned. He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t have time to, either. The strange screeching, rattling cries of the monsters rise from the stairwell, echoing eerily through the metal of the vents and pipes overhead. It sounds like a lot of them. And they’re coming down fast.

Jim doesn’t take his eyes or the machine gun off of the open doorway to the little room they’re in as he barks, “Give me good news, Newby!”

“All the doors are open,” Bob says, turning to look in his direction. “Think you can buy me one more minute to open the front gate for them, too?”

Jim’s face isn’t visible, his back still turned to Bob, but his voice is grim. “I can try.”

3) relativity falls but it’s stranger things

Yet another WIP that’s near and dear to my heart and taking forever to finish! This seems to be a theme. 

This one was inspired by (as you may be able to tell from the file name) the Gravity Falls Relativity Falls AU, where people swapped the ages of the Stan twins and the Mystery Twins, and also various side characters and antagonists. This fic is a Stranger Things season 1 AU where the teens are in the roles of the adults, the adults are in the roles of the kids, and the kids are in the roles of the teens. Nancy’s the Chief of Police with a broken family and a broken heart, Mike’s the loner who gets thrown together with a classmate by the disappearance of a kid, and Karen is the plucky twelve-year-old determined to find her missing friend. 

I’m stuck in the Dreaded Middle at the moment, because shaking up the roles shook up the plot, and I didn’t plan ahead for how to resolve it quite enough. There’s a reason outlining has become my best friend. 

There are a number of samples in my sample tag, but also, since you asked so nicely: 

...

The girl’s eyebrows crumple together and she makes a soft, wordless little noise as Mike and Will lower her carefully down, spread out along the length of the couch. Like it hurts. She’s already bled through the blue strips of bandage that used to be Mike’s t-shirt. Not for the first time, Mike wonders what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“I’ll – I’ll check on the water,” he says, dropping the girl’s heavy black Doc Marten boots on the arm of the couch. He doesn’t wait for Will to answer, just makes his escape across the room to the kitchen sink. His ears are burning, and he has no idea why.

The taps at the sink refuse to turn, at first. When they finally do, it’s with an ominous creak, and then a slow and rising rumble that makes the faucet shake before it abruptly spits out a clot of slime and rust. The water that comes burbling out after it is brown and freezing cold.

“I forgot,” Mike says, as he rejoins Will by the couch. “This place is on a well. The tapwater might not be any better than the rainwater. Actually, it might be worse. But there were some clean dishtowels in the drawer,” he finishes, offering up the stack, along with the cereal bowl he’d filled with brownish water. “And I think there are still some towels in boxes in the bathroom, so we could dry her off -”

Will, Mike notices, has a smile like a sunbeam. Somehow it makes Mike even more embarrassed of his babbling. “That’s great. Do you think your mom or her uncle would’ve kept any antiseptic and bandages around?”

Mike spends the next – he doesn’t know how long, starting up the cabin’s generator to get the lights on, lighting the cast-iron stove in the corner, running and fetching and washing and applying pressure under Will’s quiet but certain direction. He’s a little amazed by this side of Will. Mike mostly only knows the Will Byers he sees at school or when he has to pick Karen up or drop her off at Joyce’s. The Will Byers with his nose always in a sketchbook or a novel, who lets the bullies push him around with an air of silent exasperation, who rarely if ever talks back or raises his hand in class. Seeing him this confident, this focused, is new. He really seems like he’s in his element.

Mike wonders briefly how Will learned so much about medicine and first aid, and then feels stupid. Of course. He knows Will works, has worked at just about every odd job around town since he was old enough to start. He knows Will was a lifeguard last summer. And – it’s just Will and his dad and his sister, and Will’s dad works odd hours, with the paper, and long ones, at the general store. Will probably cooks, too. And does laundry, and all the other stuff Mike’s dad has somebody come in to take care of.

That thought makes Mike feel incredibly – something. Maybe guilty, though he’s not sure why. He’s got bigger things to worry about right now, though, so he shoves it to the back of his mind.

The girl frowns, and whines, and at one point throws an arm out and smacks Mike hard across the chest, but she doesn’t wake up. Mike presses the inside of one wrist against her damp, pale forehead, under her close-shorn fringe of hair, and starts. “She’s burning up!”

Will glances up from the wound in her side. “Fever’s a bad sign. Can you get a couple of cloths and run them under cold water? One for her forehead, one for the back of her neck.”

Mike comes back with three cloths, and another cereal bowl full of icy wellwater. There’s just something fundamentally – grubby about the girl, now that he’s up close and personal, like she’s been camping for weeks without a proper bath. Mike tells himself it’s important to get her cleaned up to keep her wound from getting infected. But mostly, there’s just not a lot else he can do, other than putting his finger where Will tells him to to hold bandages in place while Will ties them off.

And Mike just thinks that, if it was him who was hurt and hiding out and unconscious at the mercy of a couple of strangers, he’d at least want somebody to clean the smudge of dirt off his chin. And the dried blood from the crevices around his nose. And maybe wipe off some of the black eyeshadow that the rain had melted down his cheeks.

The girl’s face is narrow and sharp, her cheekbones high, the bow of her lips sweet, her lashes dark against her cheeks. When her face screws up in pain, Mike gives one extra, unnecessary brush of the cloth over that cheek, as gently as he can. He doesn’t dare touch her with his bare hands, without the excuse and barrier of the cloth in between them. But he wants to do something to comfort her.

Without the makeup, without the scowl, she looks – so much younger. Almost delicate, despite the hair and the boots and the leather jacket and the tattoo. Almost vulnerable –

The girl’s eyes snap open, and fix on Mike’s.

Mike’s not sure what happens next. One second, he’s kneeling beside the girl, carefully washing grime off her face. The next, his back is smashing into the wall across the room. There’s an ominous rattle, and the mounted deer head high on the wall goes crashing to the floor between his feet. He raises a hand to his spinning, aching head, and tries to focus, to figure out what just happened.

The girl is wedged up against the far arm of the couch, knees tucked tight against her chest like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. One arm’s flung out in front of her with the palm facing Will and her fingers all splayed, like she’s directing traffic. There’s a bead of blood inching down from her nose, but she doesn’t move to wipe it away. Her eyes are big and furious and scared and flicking back and forth between Mike and Will. If she was a cat, Mike thinks, her back would be up and her ears would be flat against her head.

Her voice is clear and sharp as she demands, “Where am I?”

Will’s got both hands in the air, like the girl had pulled a gun on him. The bowl of water Mike had brought him – which is a pinkish brown now, Mike notices, with a lurch in his stomach – is splashed all over the floor by Will’s knees, slowly soaking into his jeans, but he doesn’t so much as shift away from the slowly-spreading puddle.

“It’s okay,” Mike says, wincing as he starts to straighten up. He’s not sure why the look Will shoots him is so frightened, but then, he’s also not sure how he ended up on the other side of the room. Maybe the girl’s some kind of ninja assassin or something. She doesn’t look strong enough to throw Mike across the room, but – Mike knows maybe better than anybody how appearances can be deceiving.

The girl’s attention snaps to Mike as well, and she whips her arm around so that the palm is facing him instead of Will. Mike stops trying to get up, raising one hand instead in surrender. “It’s all right, okay? We’re not gonna hurt you. And we’re way out in the woods here, nobody’s gonna find you.” He glances down at the girl’s side, where fresh red is starting to seep through the bandages Will had so carefully wrapped. “You should probably lie back down, it looks like you’re opening that back up -”

“I’m leaving,” the girl says. Somehow, she makes it sound like a threat.

“Okay,” Mike says, as she unfolds herself from the couch and takes one uncertain step forward. “Nobody’s stopping you. You don’t have to, though. You’ve got a fever. And a bullet wound. You can stay here until you feel better, Will and I won’t tell -”

“I,” the girl repeats, wobbling and nearly crashing back down onto the couch, “am leaving.”

Will meets Mike’s eyes with a panicked look. Mike’s sure Will can see as clearly as he can that the girl isn’t going to make it more than two more steps before she falls over. But neither of them, Mike thinks, knows what to do about it.

“Who’s after you?” Mike asks. Maybe, if he can keep the girl talking –

She fixes him with a glare. And then flops back, heavily, onto the couch. She looks briefly surprised and indignant, like her own legs have betrayed her, and pushes herself back to her feet, even though she looks even wobblier than before.

“Mike,” Will says, low and urgent and frightened.

“What? You want to know too, right? If they’re the same people who took Joyce -”

“Mike,” Will repeats, with a warning flicker of his eyes in the girl’s direction.

Mike’s getting the feeling he’s missed something. “What?”

“It might be a bad idea to piss her off,” Will hisses at him, still with that pleading, scared look.

Mike pushes himself to his feet. “Yeah, well, murdering bank robber or not, I don’t think she’s in much shape to -”

He doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. Because the girl glares, and waves a hand. And Mike’s back smashes into the wall again and stays there.

Mike kicks, and struggles, and gasps. But none of it does anything. It’s like there’s a gigantic, invisible hand pressed flat against his chest, squeezing the air out of him, pinning him in place. The girl’s glower turns to a slow, small smile, which is somehow just as ominous, her dark eyes never leaving his.

She lifts her hand a little higher. Mike can feel his windbreaker drag against the wall behind him as his feet leave the ground.

And then the girl’s eyes roll back and she collapses gracelessly backwards across the couch. The invisible hand holding Mike pinned abruptly vanishes, and he drops, hits his feet wrong, and winds up on the floor on his hands and knees, inches from putting an eye out on one of the deer head’s antlers.

For a frozen moment, nobody moves.

“Oh,” Mike says, finally, straightening up with care.

“Yeah,” Will agrees.

They both turn to look at the unconscious girl.

“Well,” Mike says, for lack of anything intelligent to say, “that might be why somebody’s after her.”

...

[ask me about a WIP!]