#character: will scott

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 25

Lost Voice | Duct Tape | “You better start talking.”

I CAUGHT UP!!

Another suggestion from @stripedroseandsketchpads​ thank you Kay!! ‘3rd one re: getting caught in GoK (arrest at the end maybe?)’

CW: period typical journalistic homophobia and scaremongering about AIDS. References to terrorism, bigotry and racism as well as mob violence (very vaguely alluded to). Good old fashioned fisticuffs :’)

---

Francis Crawford was sitting outside Kings Cafe in the bright grey light of a crisp autumn day in Glasgow. He wore his customary shades and long-mouthed scowl, and his knee jogged impatiently. He ignored the glances of theatre kids and uni students slipping into the cafe for post-lecture brunches. If any of them were brave enough to pause and address him -

"'Scuse me, man, are ye Lymond?"

"When's the new album out, pal?"

"Wouldya sign this serviette fer me? Reckon I could get a few bob fer it down at Barras market..."

- he simply stared back in silence until the sight of their own pimply faces in his reflective lenses disconcerted them and sent them scuttling away. No one complained about this treatment: he was wearing the kind of folded and studded leather jacket that could conceal any number of things in its pockets, and his fist was curled tightly on the unevenly settled aluminium table. The scars on his knuckles shone white beneath the rumour of sunlight and the tabloids were still full of speculation about all the horrors he might have participated in during his time in New York.

Will Scott took all this in with a knowing sneer as he loped along Elmbank Street, a copy of today's paper and a cassette player tucked under his arm.

Lymond thought he was untouchable, the callous bastard. On the anniversary of his little sister's death he was sitting there, waiting for his bandmates to answer his summons, focussed only on how much money he could squeeze out of their next album.

Will had had enough of it.

He stopped by the table and stood deliberately between Francis and the hazy spot of cloud the sun was pushing at. In the mirror of Francis' sunglasses he was a curving beanpole of a man, like some kids' TV character: blue jeans, black leather, shock of red curls.

"Fair fa' ye, boss," Will said with a smirk of anticipation.

Francis' pale brows where hidden behind the rims of his aviators and his expression didn't change. He just nodded and gestured to the other seat.

"Actually," Will grinned, drawing a deep and satisfying breath of cafe air - it smelled of bean sauce, weak tea, and suet. "I told Mat tae meet us over at Blythswood. It's nicer being in the park - I can play ye the new demo without the traffic." Will gestured to the cassette player under his arm.

Francis looked up at him - Will assumed he did by the angle of his chin, anyway - and Will wondered whether he was going to be obstreperous.

Instead, Francis shrugged. "Go and get your tea to take away, then..." he said impatiently.

Will did so, and when he emerged saw that Francis was standing in anticipation of him, pacing a little and kicking at the cigarette butts on the pavement.

He was really craving a smoke, Will saw, and he was pleased to think the treacherous arsehole was suffering. "C'mon! Don't wanna keep Turkey waiting..." Will elbowed him in the arm and strode off at a clip towards Blythswood.

Francis traipsed along after him, moodily silent until they reached the side streets. Then, to Will's discomfort, he began to chat about the album and how he envisaged the material coming together. He sounded genuinely interested in hearing the demo Will claimed to have brought, and Will clenched his jaw and reminded himself what fun it would be instead to see Francis' expression when he realised Will had rooted out the truth of his past.

They wandered around the edge of Blythswood Square gardens, circling the railings until they were at a sheltered spot under a drooping cherry tree. Francis pulled himself up and over the iron barrier easily and then held his hands out to take the tea, the cassette player and the paper Will was holding.

Will passed them to him and lifted his own leg to brace against the stump of a branch pushing through the rails. He hauled himself up and over without impaling himself - it was perhaps the smoothest he'd ever managed the manoeuvre of trespassing into the private gardens, and he straightened with a smirk, imagining that Francis might have some grudgingly impressed witticism to share.

Instead, Francis was frowning at the pages of the paper Will had brought.

Damnit, did he have no self-restraint? Will thought, checking his watch as a new worry occurred to him. He needed to keep Francis here until the fuzz arrived - he didn't want Francis getting his suspicions up early and making a run for it.

"What's up? Worried your hero's sold out?" Will tittered, thinking of the headline about Sinn Féin's recent electoral success and grabbing his tea back,

Francis looked up at him sharply. He'd pushed his sunglasses back so they rested among the ash blond waves of his hair. They stood in the shade of late autumn colour, where the air was still cool from a light morning frost, and a single, deep line scored the pale skin between Francis' brows as he fixed Will with his stare.

"Did you read this?" he asked softly.

Will, who had skimmed the front page - but taken Dandy Hunter's word at face value that the damning report on Francis' collusion with terrorists would be included - shook his head and smiled innocently. "No?"

Francis looked him over slowly and then turned the paper towards him.

Will folded the sheets messily - they flapped and fought him at every step, and he wished Dandy didn't have to be pretentious enough to write for one of the few remaining broadsheets.

He looked for the pseudonymous diary column, but instead his eyes fell on a hateful little piece at the bottom of the page.

Chart Topping Drummer Potential 'Typhoid Mary' in Gay Plague Spread  

Next to the article was a picture of Turkey Mat, sweaty and happy after a gig, his thick arm slung round Francis Crawford's shoulder. Francis was wearing one of his more fey outfits, something lacy and flouncy, and his smile could only be described as Puckish. To his side stood one of the famous drag stars from the Ostrich in full stage make-up. The middle finger she was giving the camera had been censored out with a black box. Another, smaller image, showed Francis sharing a microphone cheek to cheek with a second guitarist; a man. The photo was apparently taken in New York, at a club called Three Cheers.

Will's eyes ran back and forth over the text but he couldn't really take it in. It was full of lies anyway - Mat wasn't gay (at least, Will had never heard him express interest in anyone of any gender), he'd probably been infected when he was using drugs, or working with addicts, and in any case he hadn't known he was a carrier of the virus when he'd left New York, so Francis hadn't been part of any campaign to 'smuggle' AIDS into the country, as the newspaper came perilously close to claiming. It was a sensationalised, racist, and deeply homophobic distraction from the real story Will had approached Dandy with, which was the issue of Francis and the IRA weapons.

"What the fuck is this...?" Will muttered, shaking his head.

Francis was looking at him strangely. He'd gone quite pale - paler than normal - and there were lines of worry around his remarkable eyes that Will hadn't really appreciated before.

"Did you speak to Mat this morning?" his voice was still unsettlingly gentle, filled with concern for the toothless oaf of a drummer he'd picked up in some skeevy punk club.

"What? I, no," Will said defensively.

Francis blinked. "When you told him to meet us here and not the cafe?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah."

"He didn't mention this?"

"Probably hadna seen it. I don't imagine he's a subscriber to the broadsheets," Will chuckled nervously.

Francis looked nauseated. He didn't contradict Will, but he shook his head and gazed out past the topiary shrubs to the main part of the garden. He plucked the paper from Will's fingers and folded it up. The he took the cassette player from under his arm instead. "Shall we have a listen to this demo, then?"

"Here?" Will asked.

"We are, after all, in Blythswood Square."

"Aye, but how will Mat see us here in the hedgerow?" Will scoffed. "There's a bench right there," he nodded.

Francis' eyes narrowed suspiciously and he peered out over the railings they'd climbed. He seemed to listen carefully to the traffic, and Will hoped to god the police squad he’d tipped off would be smart enough to come without sirens.

Whatever he heard or didn't hear, Francis found no excuse not to follow Will to the bench.

"Aye." Will sat down and Francis sat down, the machine between them, poised to play. "A little introduction..." Will took a deep breath and let it out, reminding himself of all the justification he had for this, all the reasons he'd read about in the papers, seen on the news, all the innocents who'd never be coming back to their families because of what Francis Crawford had helped the terrorists achieve.

"The story behind this one - and correct me if ye know it already - begins a few thousand miles that-a-way." Will pointed in the direction closest to west, and Francis watched him in silence.

He'd put his sunglasses away. The cloud cover had thickened and blackened, and the sun no longer illuminated it from behind. Francis sat on his hands and learned forwards, a little hunched, his frown unchanging and his mouth unhappy.

But he listened.

Will spun a story of a young man's ambition, of a hedonistic reliance on drugs and fame, of mob debts and a wannabe gangster who figured the best way to beat his captors was by joining them. He imagined a sadistic joy in cruelty, the transformation of ambition into a power trip. Noble ideals - the freedom of a nation - soured into commercial, base calculations regarding how many of their side needed to die in order for his side to win. People became pawns to him, as he sought influence over the world in whatever way he could get it.

When Will had finished, Francis let out a quiet snort and stood.

"I told you, Will - prog's out of fashion."

"What? Don't you want to listen to the cassette?"

Francis' cornflower blue eyes were totally hidden by heavy lids as he gazed down at the machine.

"I don't think it will fit the album, from your description," his lip curled.

"Don't you want to give your side of it?!" Will exclaimed.

Francis let the ensuing silence stretch out across the square. Only beyond it there wasn't silence - the noise of the city continued, unabated. And within that noise Francis now heard something that made him curse and shake his head.

"It seems you already have it on your wretched cassette, Marigold," he spat. He turned, evidently resolved to leave.

"No - " Will leapt to his feet, his hands balled into fists. "This is you, this is what you do! What ye've done! And ye'd better start talking, acause soon the whole world is goin' tae know about ye anyway!"

Francis cast a glance over his shoulder, condescending and disdainful. "It seems I've already done more than enough talking, does it not? Now, I am going to go and see my sick friend and check how he's responding to the national press comparing him to a plague rat."

Will rolled his eyes. "Och, he'll be fine. That wasna meant tae happen..."

"Fine?" Francis repeated, and let Will's diagnosis hang. "Then I hope you've learned a lesson about dealing with creatures such as Andrew Hunter," he added coldly before turning away again.

There was still no sign of the fuzz, so Will did the only thing left to him and grabbed a leather-clad shoulder and spun Francis back to face him, swinging his fist simultaneously so that it cracked into one of those sharp-boned cheeks.

"Ye bollix!" Will exclaimed at the pain in his knuckles and bent over, shaking his hand.

It had been effective, though - Francis had staggered and reeled and now held his jaw with his own hand, a look of fury kindling in his eyes.

He gave a little nod to Will, a kind of challenge that asked him, Really? Do you really want to do this?

Will, who had been stewing in resentment and anger - fear for his family and friends - rage at how easily the world fell into place for Francis Crawford, who might have already had it all if he wasn't such an uncompromising tyrant - kissed his bruised knuckles, tossed his red curls back from his forehead, and licked his lips: Aye, I do.

He braced as Francis lunged at him.

[adrianfridge]

Height gap romance except the shorter one is frequently depicted in situations where they are contextually taller. The taller one sitting while the shorter one looms over them. Both of them lying in bed with the taller one’s head pressed to the shorter one’s chest. The shorter one straddling the taller one’s lap and leaning down for a kiss. The taller one on their knees as the shorter one tilts their head up. Please, it makes me go feral

[samdravvs]

I firmly believe that every conflict in X-men can be solved by polyamory and gay sex

[chloesimaginationthings]

Do any of you remember Scott's games before FNAF?

[hal-monitor]

Get it together Scott!!!

[jennipond]

happy pride to the x-men

[honeybeebuddy]

part 2 of the modern au: Gem and the Scotts!

[deunmiu-dessie]

he misses you. he misses you like a flower misses the sun. like the desert misses the rain. like you are the entirety of his being. as if you hold the key to his fierce, thumping bloody heart within the palm of your hands, like he is nothing without you— and perhaps he isn't. he doesn't feel like himself, no, in fact, he feels empty. like a shell of the man he used to be before you. he feels as though the world has lost its color, its meaning, and it makes him feel bare— it makes him feel.

he misses you. he misses the warmth of your perfume, a sweet and spicy blended aroma of saffron and sugared lavender. he misses your smile, all wide and pretty— genuine and charming, and always all for him. he misses the sound of your laughter, raw and boisterous, but sometimes soft and breathy, intimate. he misses your kisses, shy and cloying— yet fierce and angry at times as well. he misses the small things, like the scatter of moles across the expanse of your body that he finds himself counting when he can't fall asleep. or the way you fuss over him, mumbling curses and your love for him all in the same sentence.

he is nothing without you, and he knows it all too well.

the soft jangle of your keys in the lock makes him look up from his journal, the door swinging open. and despite himself, he finds that he's softened underneath your warm, loving gaze. ah, he also misses the sound of your voice, euphonious and soft, a tone you use for him specifically.

❝why are you looking at me like that?❞

he can feel his heart dance within his chest, pounding fiercely as you slant your hip to the side, the very same hips he adores holding onto when swaying with you to music. your eyes, which always seem to sweep him under with their intensity with no fail, are glittering with mirth, it knocks the breath from his chest. ❝ i adore you,❞ he utters— he sounds like a fool in love, and he doesn't particularly mind it. your cheeks flush with color and you playfully roll your eyes. that's alright, you don't need to say it back, he knows.

❝help me with the groceries?❞

he? ⸺ SIMON, gojo satoru, DAMON SALVATORE, soap, older!TANJIRO, scott mccall, GAZ, clark kent, EMMETT CULLEN, leon kennedy, STEVE HARRINGTON, giyu tomioka, JOHN PRICE, loran, ULYSSES, rick grimes, KÖNIG, dick grayson, SPENCER REID.

honestly it can be anyone you envision.

[tiger-in-the-flightdeck]

"My favourite superhero is Green Lantern!"

"My favourite is the Flash!"

"Mine is Robin!"

[forecast0ctopus]

hey its still star trek day in a few timezones

[fanartsandstuff]

I just love ao3 authors

We live in a beautiful era of people not giving a single fuck

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 3

Hair's breadth from death: Gun to Temple | "Say goodbye" | Impaled

Today I extend my apologies to Will Scott.

Warnings: sectarian slurs, gang scuffles, stabbing. Badly written Scots.

Context: in the AU the Scotts are fans of Glasgow Rangers and the Kerrs are fans of Celtic. The two football teams have a rivalry and are known as the Old Firm. The support for the teams is rooted in sectarian divisions - Rangers supporters being traditionally Protestant, unionist, while Celtic (pronounced 'sell-tick') supporters are traditionally Catholic, supporters of Irish Nationalism (if you're wondering how this fits with Wat Scott's hatred of the English let me tell you there's a whole spectrum of hypocritical views on both sides and Wat is quite capable of thinking of Scotland as the ruler, what with their king having taken the English throne).

Also Bonkers was a real nightclub in Glasgow. Apparently when it closed down in the early 2000s, crime in the area decreased by 30%.

---

"Where the fuck is he?" Fergie Hoddim leaned on the deck and glared out at the punters below them. Her skinny arms glistened with sweat beneath the sickly fluorescent lights.

Alec Guthrie shook his head and lifted a set of headphones to his ear, keeping his attention fixed pointedly on the turntables he was operating, though he, too, swept a nervous eye over the crowds.

Bonkers Show Bar was a dangerous place at the best of times, an early-opening watering hole that drew in all species of gang-banger, roaster and madman from across the city. Drinkers were accustomed to music that got them attuned to their amphetamine-fuelled heartbeats: hardcore noise to choreograph their fights to, to absorb and swell the screamed insults and muffle anything that wasn't abuse just well enough that it could he misconstrued as such anyhow. As a rule, the maniacs on the dancefloor at Bonkers didn't give a shit who was operating the decks, so long as the beat never dropped and the bar never ran dry.

Nevertheless, an appearance by the St Mary's collective raised expectations. The neds didn't care about much, but they knew their local heroes and they knew Lymond was famous as fuck even outside Scotland - they knew he was the real deal, and any other line-up sent from St Mary's was just scraps. For them, it was Lymond or bust - anything else was nothing but an insult, and you didn't show that kind of contempt for the crowd at Bonkers without it turning riotous.

Happy hour had ended and the punters had begun to realise that Lymond wasn't lurking round the bar anywhere. No one had even announced his immanent arrival - though the band members DJing had, indeed, been counting on him turning up before the watershed.

Only Will Scott remained calm in the face of a sea of boiling, furious Scotsmen. He handed a couple of seven inches to Randy Bell and gestured for him to pass them to Alec.

Randy didn't look reassured. He shook his head and yelled in Will's ear: "There's only so much damage control a house remix of I Don't Like Mondays can do!"

Will rolled his eyes. "Trust Alec - he'll make magic frae it, just you see..." He folded his arms and surveyed the battlefield. He wondered what was holding Francis up, sure he did, though he remained confident of his own ability to keep the crowd entertained in the meantime.

He'd conceded to the dress code that the place insisted on enforcing and was growing warm in his long-sleeved white shirt and tartan trousers, but the outfit made him feel in control and professional. Lymond expected professional behaviour in his absence, particularly when others were representing him and his enterprise, and Will was determined he wouldn't let his old friend down. After the hell of the slave contracts he'd been on, Francis deserved his own label to have as much success as possible, and Will was going to help him achieve that.

He picked up the mic as Alec and Fergie blended the next record in and scanned the upturned, rapturous, restless faces before him. "Aye, Hope Street, how is it?" he bellowed.

The crowd rumbled like an earthquake.

"Oh aye? D'ye even ken what day it is, any of ye?"

The heckles were beautiful. Will laughed at every word he caught:

"The day after the day after I was born!"

"The last day of yer career!"

"Piss off and get the man on!"

"Yer ma's birthday!"

"Pay day ye wee ginger cunt!"

He nodded at their answers. "Aye? Then ye havna had enough o' the good stuff if ye still ken so much, eh?" The beat throbbed in time with Will's excited pulse and his smile spread, crafty, over his face. "What're ye wasting breath hollerin' for? Away an' get wrecked, boys!"

As the punters grizzled and howled back at Will's provocation, Fergie faded another track in, and Bob Geldof's nasally voice drowned them out:

And he can see no reasons

'Cause there are no reasons

What reason do you need to be shown?

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh...

Tell me why!

I don't like Mondays...

Will grinned at Randy, who didn't look at all reassured. "I was gonna go tae the bar fer us and now ye've got them all riled!" he whined.

"Och, c'mon ye fearty," Will slapped his shoulder. "I'll protect ye. It's no worse than derby day at Ibrox."

He shoved Randy ahead of him, gestured at Fergie and Alec to confirm they were ok to hold the fort and that they wanted drinks too, and waded into the crowd.

Will towered above the melee of bodies and grinned at the un-lip-readable things that were spat at him. A hand on each of Randy's shoulders, Will guided them to the bar and leaned, gangly, over the shorter man to yell his order across to the server.

Randy looked squirrelishly about him in a way that made Will cuff him with a gentle paw to the ear. "Chill out, man. Ye'll only attract trouble if ye go about expecting it."

"Will, wait, isn't that -?" Randy's shoulders tensed under Will's easy touch. "What the fuck are they doing here?"

Will turned to see where Randy was staring and let out a sigh.

By the entrance to the club, a group of lads in black jackets were scuffling and shoving one another. A disproportionate number of them shared the same thick aubern crew-cut and cold brown eyes - a family trait as recognisable as the Celtic bands Will was sure were tattooed on skin hidden beneath their clothes, as recognisable as the songs they sang on the terraces and the sectarian insults they hollared in the streets. Will immediately regretted having invoked derby day.

The gang of Kerrs had identified a pair of enemies on their territory - maybe the bald man and his scar-faced friend had English accents, maybe they'd said something unwise about the Fenians, maybe they'd simply expressed a dislike of the colour green and a preference for blue. In any case, the Kerrs were intent on meting out some kind of lesson to them, no matter the imbalance of numbers at play.

The club security wished to make it clear that the lesson could be taught outside rather than in such close proximity to the bar and the dance floor, and as Will watched, the vortex of furious men began to move towards the doorway, their ringleader dragged by his jacket between the beefy grip of two burly doormen.

"Oh, that's gonna turn nasty..." Randy muttered.

"It already is," Will replied. He didn't feel the same stirring of hatred he knew his father felt when he saw a member of the Kerr family, but by god he came close to it when he saw a whole bunch of them whaling on only a pair of men.

"Och, Will, no..." Randy said weakly as Will's hands left his shoulders and he began to move towards the disturbance.

"Stay back, Rando," Will didn't turn, but gestured behind him even as Randy struggled to keep pace with him through the crowds.

By the time they got to the door, the Kerrs and their prey had been successfully moved out onto the street. Will stalked past the security guys, who now stood in front of the building with arms crossed, letting whatever unfolded outside their establishment unfold.

"Oi! Enough o'that, lads!" Will yelled with the supreme confidence only someone well over six foot and reconciled to his height could muster. He strode straight for the tangle of men blocking the gutter of the main road and waved cheerily as a taxi honked in objection to the obstacle.

"Och look, the huns've brought reinforcements," one of the Kerrs sneered, turning away from the sport of tenderising their targets with jostling and abuse.

A couple of his cousins, or siblings, looked up and spat over their shoulders.

"Tis the Orange bastard himself!"

"Wheer's yer daddy wee hunny bunny? Are ye finally fit tae take o'er the business, aye?"

"Whisht and shut yer trap, Tommy," Will stood over them, his arms relaxed by his sides, his nose far beyond the reach of their solid foreheads. "What's the fuss here, eh? Don't like the tunes me and my pals've been spinning?"

"Could do with better material, aye. Ye gonna play Fields of Athenry if we ask nicely?" Tommy Kerr's lip curled.

"Wheer's yer man Lymond, eh?" another Kerr demanded as the group's attention gradually turned its focus onto Will. "He'd play what we want tae hear - he's a friend of the Irishman, eh?"

There was a moment of leering and jeering and elbowing one another as the name Oonagh O'Dwyer was bandied about.

Will smirked at them. "He's on his way, lads, but the main act always comes on late, surely ye ken that?"

There was a chorus of sneering chuckles as they closed in about him, but Will remained calm. He'd been sparring with the Kerrs since the first Old Firm game his da had taken him to as a too-tall four year old, and he didn't fear their words or their posturing - not in the middle of the main street, not this early in the night, not when he was there as a musician and a colleague of Lymond's instead of a Rangers fan.

Randy wasn't so calm. Will felt the other man's fist close on the fabric of his shirt as Randy shuffled near for protection, or maybe to cover Will's back. "Will, I think we should go back in. Lymond might be here by now, and he'll no be happy if we're scrappin' out here and no DJing...Remember what he said about sticking to the plan?"

Will pretended to ignore him, but he was quite happy to make peace anyway, whatever plan Randy imagined Lymond had. "Whadya say, Tommy? I'll even buy you and the boys a round of Jamesons - if they sell that shite here..."

The Kerrs chuckled again with menace, enjoying the taunt and the opportunity for fresh offense. Nevertheless, the offer of drink wasn't one to be dismissed out of hand, and they appeared to be considering it - at least up until their original victims, Baldy and Scar-face, decided they'd been unfairly neglected since Will showed up.

"I wasna done, ye Fenian coward!" screamed Baldy, grabbing one of the Kerrs by his jacket, hauling him round and striking a blow to his face.

"Here, Tim, ye want some?" Scar-face launched his head at another of the Kerrs' noses and there was a wet popping sound as cartilage and bone crumpled.

Will was at the centre of it all as things kicked off and he grabbed for whoever he could get a hold of, trying to push Baldy back with one big freckled hand planted on his forehead and simultaneously scruffing a Kerr by the shirt collar with the other. Bodies surrounded him, shoving and struggling, elbows and fists and feet lashing out in search of the right landing. Will felt the squeeze of the tumult around his torso, nothing compared to the crowds shoving in the pit when they played on stage, but increasing in determination as the Kerrs and their antagonists exchanged ever rowdier insults.

"Hoi, hoi, cut it out ye walloppin' donkeys!" Will slapped at Baldy's pate and elbowed a Kerr in the jaw. He wriggled and jostled among them, trying to drive himself between the sides, to force them apart however he could. Sure, his toes got trod on, his shins got kicked and his ribs got pummelled, but it was nothing he couldn't handle - or dole out just the same, when the fighting was really happening around him, not to him.

But then he noticed the cold, a damp sensation spreading unexpected against his skin in among the warm knot of bodies. It was like a drink had been spilled down the left side of him, a whole bleeding pint of something flat and sticky - it made his shirt cling with the texture of day-old Buckfast. He tried to turn to see if someone else had joined the affray fresh from the bar, and as he twisted he felt it: a direct line of agony impaling him just below the ribs.

Pain lanced through him, blasting past shock, bypassing every other function, every other reflex. Will let out a cry, his legs buckled, and the group around him recognised the timbre of complaint caused by a serious injury - they stepped back, like petals peeling away from a bud, and with none of them nearby to catch his weight or break his fall, Will dropped to the tarmac, too helpless to soften his own landing.

His knees took the brunt of it and his jaw hit next, so he lay face-down, stunned by the excruciating claws of pain that reached up and around his body, spreading from his abdomen to his shoulder. He could see the smart shoes of the clubbers retreat as he blinked back nausea, gasping like a stranded fish. The others were leaving: one step, two, a nervous shuffle.

"What did ye do?!"

"Me? It wasna me!"

"How many times do I hafta tell ye tae leave the blade on a dance night?"

"I didna, it wasna mine!"

"Jesus, ye think it was the huns?"

"The huns are carrying now?"

"Aw, fuck..."

"Wheer'd they go?"

"Ah, shite..."

"We gotta git, boys, Ahm no takin' the rap fer a deid rock star..."

"He's no rock star, he's just another Prod..."

"Orange bastard..."

"Pity about that drink he offered - I could aye do with that..."

Will listened to them scatter into the night and managed to exhale a winded-sounding moan, or something like a bleat. He might as well have been pinned to the street for all he could do - he knew his life was leaking out, leaving him empty and light, so if he got up he'd just blow away into an alley like a greasy old crisp packet. His fingers flexed on the road surface and he wondered where the taxis were - he needed to get out of the way before they ran him over...

He whimpered again and felt agony in his shoulder. He screwed his eyes shut and felt tears leak out - god, what was he crying for? Francis, who he'd let down? Grizel, who'd be mad at him if he got back late?

The voice he heard as he felt himself sinking into himself was neither Francis' nor Grizel's however, but it spoke in deep, sorrowful tone: "I'm glad you called me, Randy, but I fear we may be too late. It could be time to say goodbye..."

"Don't say that, Swami, not before Francis gets here..."

No, Will tried to repeat, his lips moving though no sound emerged. Not before Francis gets here.

[frogfacey]

swinging a bat at a hornets nest and all that but I can't believe some ppl will see a character who, when you look them for more than two seconds, was in the text assigned male at birth and because of this spends the entire narrative being miserable as a man and feels failed by and is accused of failing at the expectations of masculinity and is trapped in a set of unspoken societal rules that he feels he has no hope of escaping and their first thought is "I think he's transmasc!"

[clover-doodles]

MY SECRET LIFE DESIGNS

But reference chibis + headcannons

[ row by row ]

[ individuals + headcannons ]

Lizzie

- fairy

Cleo

- zombie

Gem

- deer / fawn

Pearl

- moth + avian

- no moth or bird in particular

Scar

- fae / vex + moth

- a fluffy moth

- scars change depending on the series

Grian

- watcher + avian

- glasses are there sometimes

- starling based

- wing theme changes very depending on the series

Mumbo

- vampire + moth

- no moth in particular

Etho

- arctic fox

Joel

- fae + whatever his season theme is

Martyn

- fae + elf ( idk) + whatever his season theme is

Scott

-  butterfly

- or whatever his season theme is

Jimmy

- avian

- canary based

Tango

- blazeborn

Impulse

- imp

Skizz

- angel

BigB

- rabbit

- whatever his season theme is

Bdubs

- a mossy dude

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This is a continuation of

This Post

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I finally finished them all ( yippe )

character design is hard especially on chibis because you have to make them least cluttered as possible ( I don’t think I did a good job on that part but who cares)

will these be hell to animate ( yes ) but I don’t care I love them anyway

( I maybe might make a commentary video about my process but that probably won’t be for a bit )

[paunchsalazar]

Scott Pilgrim and company

[jetlaggingbehind]

thinking about wallace wells. thinking about going through hook ups like tissue paper, never believing anybody will stick around besides scott, who's here only because he has nowhere else to go, and you let him stay anyway even though he doesnt pay the rent. one of the only consistent people in your life, someone you might've actually genuinely liked straight up dying and leaving you with a sudden void of an empty apartment and a cold spot in a futon. thinking about immediately getting wasted and bringing a guy home, someone whose name you won't remember but it's okay because youre only in it for the sex— you dont believe in sparks, after all. believing that scott's conception of his one true girl was a joke because you just don't think you'll ever love anyone like that. kissing someone on a movie set because it's something to do, because he's dressed in the costume of somebody you cared for, because it's all manufactured, false realities and layers of separation deep enough for you to brush off his pleas for connection. thinking about going to paris after everything, the city of love, as tacky as that is, saying you're only there to spend money. but despite the insistence on irony you meet a guy— a fellow canadian, actually, twin foreigners in an unfamiliar place. someone who actually wants to stick around, who follows you through the city to see the sights and seems to genuinely like you. it can't be genuine, though— can't possibly be a reason to stay beyond a few hookups. so you stop at the river and you kiss him to get it over with...

but instead you see sparks.