#can i resist the urge to drive myself insane by editing them to fit the imaginary standards i've set for myself

[shootingstarpilot]

If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I would love if you could compile your tumblr snippets for Shoulder The Sky into a story on ao3. Sometimes I’m looking for something and then I remember it’s on tumblr, not a story in the series. But only if you’re interested and up to it! Love your work 💛💛💛

Aw, thank you anon!!

Honestly, I've been thinking about doing that- the only reason I tend to post things on here that don't go up on ao3 is because I have two different... sets of standards, if that makes sense? I don't feel quite the same (self-inflicted) pressure to make sure something is good when I post it here as opposed to when I post something on ao3. But I do want to! I'm just working on getting over that mental hiccup 😅

Also, gotta say, I'm not quite sure how I'd format it- every snippet a different chapter? Compile everything I have so far into a oneshot and then just add new chapters as new snippets go up? And what would make the cut- just the full-length scenes, or the AU fragments of canon scenes that only didn't get included in the main chapter because I chose to write it a different way, or-

Hell. I know I'm overthinking this! But genuinely, if anyone has any suggestions / how they'd like to see something like that formatted, let me know!

[beenpxshedaside]

My Brother’s Keeper - Lost Souls AU - Part 3

I hope you like this. Reminder that I am up for talking about stuff if anyone wants to send asks or whatever (also I have work tomorrow evening but I’m already working on Part 4 so I should still be good to keep up)

tags: @memequeenjojo, @valkyreskye, @thatrandomweirdo88, @lulahood, @lifelikefin, @thatoneyoutubekid

Ko-fi link

Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part

Part 1 - Part 2

The next couple of visits go in much the same way. Every few days, the doctor turns up to ask his questions and the Author does everything he can to be unhelpful. It kind of feels like they’re getting nowhere and the doctor is beginning to wonder if he should just give up and tell the Host he’s done with....whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

Then one day about two weeks into this experiment (or whatever it is) he turns up to find the Author already sat at the table waiting for him. He’s slouched partially across it and when it comes to answering the questions, the Author’s more open and frank, going so far as to admit that his shoulder’s been aching the last few days and that he’s been having trouble sleeping but no, he still won’t talk about it.

Just as with every other time, the doctor writes everything down in his book, not oblivious to the Author’s staring, watching every pen stroke extremely carefully as he writes.

“Subtlety, thy name is not Author.”  Once he’s finished, the doctor puts the pen down on top of his open book and looks up. “You’re staring.”

“I know.” The Author gives a half-shrug with a slight smirk like its some kind of secret joke. “I ran out of books yesterday.”

The doctor glances over to the shredded papers and binding that litter the floor near to the bookshelf. “I noticed. Not good stories?”

“Terrible.”

“And yet you read every last one of them. And shredded them.”

The Author shrugs. “No pen, can’t edit them properly. So I just took out the bad bits.”

From what the doctor can see of the books’ remains, there were mostly bad bits. “You said there’s a difference between books and stories...” he prompts. Maybe since the Author is more open today, he can get an answer.

The Author carefully taps his fingers on the table in thought before moving to stand. Crossing over to the messy reading nook, he gathers random pages and two bindings, one practically empty, and the other with its contents mostly intact. When he returns to the table, he takes the most put together one and places it in between them.

“This is a book. It’s precise and clear cut.” he points to the corners of the front cover. “Everything fits neatly between these four corners with obvious write ins for sequels sprinkled liberally over everything. It’s boring, it’s dull, it’s predictable, and it never changes.”

He takes the random pages and aligns them in a sloppy way before placing them in the mostly empty binding.

“This is a story. It’s a mess. It rarely makes sense. There isn’t always solutions, and nothing wraps up in a nice little bow. It’s the kind of thing passed down by bards in the olden days, ever changing, never the same. And there isn’t just one, there’s millions, and they all interweave to form the fabric of life as we know it.” He points to the clean one “Bad.” He points to the messy one. “Good.”

The doctor looks between the two bindings. It’s a pretty good explanation but he inclines his head slightly before he speaks. “That seems a little pretentious.” The Author glares. Clearly this is not the response he’s expecting and the doctor decides to show a bit more tact. “Surely there’s some good books.”

“Some of them have potential but they’re trimmed to sell. Stories are unruly and aren’t restricted. You never know where they’re going to go.”

“So you write stories, not books?”

That seems to stop the Author short, staring blankly at the doctor before he stands up, abandoning the books on the table as he moves towards the bed. “You should probably go before the Host starts to wonder if I’ve tied you up and taken you hostage.”

He frowns. Sure this is their longest conversational interaction but it’s not even been half an hour yet. “Do you not like talking about your writing?”

The Author stops, standing next to the bed for a while before he turns, raising his arm to show off an old bronze bracelet around his wrist. A matching one encircles the other wrist. “You see these?” he asks. The doctor nods. “I made these. I created them to suppress the magic of Wilford-fucking-Warfstache. If I even try to use my powers, experience dictates that I could very well wind up driving myself over the edge of insanity.” He turns his back again, his voice becoming sombre, quiet. “There is only one person who put these on me, and he won’t take them off until I’m dead.”

It takes a few moments but then it strikes the doctor exactly what the Author is saying. “....you don’t write any more.”

“..........No.”

The silence between them is strained and uncomfortable and the doctor decides now is probably the time for him to leave. He packs his pen and notebook into his satchel, unable to resist the urge to glance over at the Author who’s sat down on the bed, staring off into space. Clearly they managed to strike a nerve and despite himself, the doctor can’t help but feel bad about it.

“Until next time.” The Author calls as he leaves.

Part 4