#swapped from: john

[bloodswapkinfessions]

:oD -> the kid swaps for my timeline are so fucking stupid. ive got a jade egbert, a jane lalonde, a john strider and a dave harley, a dirk crocker, a rose lalonde but ROXY ways what the fuck, a jake strider and a roxy english. what. the fuck

-gamzee zahhak

oh that does sound really inconvenient to keep track of oh no

[good-beansdraws]

"Nothing that happens is ever forgotten, even if you don't remember it."

This started out as a little joking style experiment while talking about the art for Mikoto/Your Name/Double/Ghibli, but now I'm actually getting emotional over how much of Spirited Away has to do with memory and identity...

[lenle-g]

unhinged observation - we all know their colours don't match the traditional ones, but I've never noticed before that on the portraits they put Jeff in red and Virgil in green, but then they swap them over when we actually see them. In fact, //pause while Len goes to look// when they're in TB3, they're all wearing red - like all the space-rated suits, specifically are red. //Goes to check again// and Gordon and Virg are in green with TB2 in the opening rescue to match Jeff as well.

Does that mean, in 2004 verse, they wear whichever colour matches the 'bird they're currently flying because other than them needing 5 suits each... that's pretty cool can't lie good for them

ignoring the fact they look the same, I can be like ??? well yellow must be wetsuits, red is space rated?? Green is ?? tougher maybe, blue is for however many G's TB1 hits a body with when they're going crazy speeds, orange is a spacesuit for living in space etc etc

[cssandraa]

new masq swap designs for these two!!

[werrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcat]

I started 30 days challenge for character couples!

Here are the 1st and 4th days! Character swap and the 1990s

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

✌🏻ᵥᵢ𝚋ᵢ𝚗 wᵢ𝚝 𝚍ₐ 𝚋ₒᵢ𝘴✌🏻

[incorrectsilvercyclopsquotes]

Pietro: What’s a guy have to do to get some decent treatment around here?

Pyro: You know Quicksilver? The criminal?!

Scott: Yeah, we’re just, uh, work friends.

Pietro: Work friends? I’ve been inside of you!

Pyro: *immediate gagging*

[brotherscain]

wincest wednesday question of the week: mary's ring or dad's leather jacket?

h.w.w. <3

hi anon! happy wincest wednesday to you!! thank you for the ask, i luv it!

so, originally seeing this in my inbox i was like: “oh, absolutely john’s jacket.” and i still feel that lol!

the jacket(tm) is a central part of classic spn’s embodiment, and of what makes it so so so fucking good beneath the crystal clear. it is winchester skin passed down to winchester, blood to blood. it is perfect, to me.

dean has always wanted it. always always always. ever since john’s had it, and ever since dean has thought of something as cool enough to want, he has wanted that jacket. whether to be like dad, or be closer to him you can take your gamble! i think it’s a messy witches brew of both plus so much more. john lets him try it on a few times, laughing not unkindly at the fit of it because his boy still has lots of growing to do. dean takes to only wearing it out and about when he’s a little older, little rougher, and only when john leaves for a while without taking it. if john knows about this and begins an unspoken tradition of draping it over dean’s side of the bed before he leaves, dropping a kiss to the high points of dean’s cheekbones, sometimes drifting lower and lower, then dean won’t ever speak about it either.

i think sam mentions it sometimes. but only sometimes because sam knows. he mentions it when he’s missing dad, or maybe when he’s missing dean. he never wears it. and sometimes he hates it. especially after stanford, how much dean is trying to sound like dad. he’ll touch dean through the thick layer, trying to feel meat and bone underneath it all. when he tucks himself into the crook of dean’s neck, he smells and feels and dwells in musky leather and warm skin. dean paws at him, rubs along his spine notches and waist sides like dad once used to. he kisses sam’s pounding temple, the thrumming pulse at his wrist in a fashion that is entirely them, absent of father and mother, of any outside rationale. it’s the closest to home sam ever feels, and no matter how much he hates to chase it sometimes he needs to know the blood that runs through him will always be there.

[uproariousscarecrow]

that's rough, buddy

[ageless-aislynn]

I've always loved the look of tv!Master Chief in his undersuit, so I did my best to recreate my very own action figure undersuit!John. 😇😉

Click to make bigger. Now, granted, people with steadier hands than I could've painted details on the suit to make it more authentic but, well, ya girl has to work with what ya girl has to work with. 🤷‍♀️😉

The recipe, if you're interested, is a Valaverse Action Force Special Ops trooper body and the Star Wars Black Series Axe Woves head. They did not swap easily, I should warn, but it's doable. 😉

I really love him and am so glad to have him on my desk at long last! ⭐💖⭐

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @oleworm For the general swap :-) I saw you'd like to read about Parabolan weirdness and Zailing and I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy! Downed and Drowned and Never Found Zee Captain and Zailor OCs, general rating, 1621 words.

The Judicious Boatswain’s knuckles went white as he gripped the railing. They were still zailing at a fast pace, headed back from the Khanate towards London with a heavy load of cargo, but… Would it be in time? He flinched hard as his Captain swept past him, his nerves having been frayed nearly to bleeding. “Captain, we need to talk. The crew is uneasy, and I hear there’s been talk of-” He called out to her back. She turned, and he regretted saying anything nigh-immediately. Her gaze was a thousand metre stare that cut into and through him like a scrimshander knife, eyes wide and empty. “Talk of what.” She said flatly. The Boatswain’s grip tightened a fraction further. “Nothing, Ma’am. Go rest. I’ll make sure it’s handled.”

The Captain did not move or breathe or blink for long enough that the Boatswain started to hold his own breath out of fear, but eventually she grunted in assent and turned her haunted gaze elsewhere. The hems of her coat dragged as she curled into herself and turned the corner, shambling out of sight. The Boatswain shivered. A young zailor ran past and he caught them by the arm, ignoring their cry of fear and surprise. “Find the First Mate and tell them they’re to act as Captain until we reach port. And for G-d’s sake, to make sure everyone gets extra rations. If the Quartermaster complains, tell him I said to shove it.” He ordered. The zailor nodded fretfully, gave a squeaked-out ‘yessir!’, and then bolted back in the direction they came from. The Boatswain sighed, shaking out the stiffness in his joints as he followed after his Captain. He already had a very good idea of what he would find, but it was nothing less than his duty to make sure. A knock went unanswered. So did a concerned greeting. Finally he steeled himself and shouldered the door open, one hand on his pistol just in case something went very badly. 

… As expected. The Captain’s quarters were entirely empty. No sign of her beyond a scattered pile of increasingly illegible papers, some old scratch marks at the corners of her windows, and a needlework prayer to Stone knocked to the floor. The Boatswain blanched and returned it to its place on the desk, unwilling to risk a zee-god’s anger on top of their already precarious situation. With luck, She’d be waiting for them in London once she recovered. —

Somewhere beyond the mirror, a form moved slowly through a jungle, gliding through the underbrush as easily as water. A wheel jutted from her spine, spokes spinning as she maneuvered. Steam and coalsmoke billowed from the corners of her mouth with every breath. “Call all hands to man the caps’n, see the cable floked down clear.” A tinny phonograph recording sang within her chest, keeping her on time. Capstan shanty. Raise the anchor. “Heave away an’ with a will boys, for ol’ London we will steer.” Her anchor lifted, bit by bit, and she picked up her pace as it no longer dragged behind her. Ships don’t have voices with which to sing, per se, but song has a way of coming through anyways. Her wooden boards creaked as she stooped under branches. “Rol-lin’ home, rollin’ home, rol-lin’ home across the zee.” The phonograph insisted, crackling softly. Her wheel spun as she turned gently to starboard. Home. Had to come home. No North Star to guide her down here, but her compass-heart knew the way all the same. As sure as Stone’s warmth. “Rollin home to dear Old London, rollin’ home, fair land, to thee.”

A rustling in the undergrowth had her shifting her stance onto her stern, movements slow but deliberate. A gun-arm was raised, and the soft glim-lamps of her eyes narrowed in focus. A tiger padded out from behind a tree, vegetation whispering against its fur. She lowered her weapons. No threat. “Well, aren’t you an interesting sight.” The tiger purred. When she didn’t respond or move, its tail flicked. “What are you doing out here?” “Heave away, you rollin’ king! Heave away, haul away! Haul away, oh hear me sing! We’re bound for London ci-ty.” Her phonograph played, a gentle static hiss clinging to some of the words. She swayed in an invisible current. “Ahh, I see.” It said, stretching languidly. She tilted her head, the ropes and lines of her hair pulling taut against their cleats. “I won’t keep you long, then. I wish you fair winds and following seas.” After a long moment, she nodded, a slow dip of her bow. The tiger disappeared back into the greenery without a sound. Smoke puffed from her mouth as she exhaled, angling herself port and starting on her slow, steady journey once more. Home. She was going home, as all ships do when a voyage is through. Her keel would keep her upright and true. She travelled like this for centuries or seconds until a familiar sight came into view. A mirror in an intricate frame, containing an image of a gas-lit hotel within. A sign that she was nearly home. Her bow breached the glass like a hand through water, and she passed through. The Devoted Captain took a deep breath as she pulled her coat taut around her. She paused for a moment, getting her bearings, when her eyes fell on the fountain in the middle of the lobby. Not the zee-water she craved, but water nonetheless. She trudged over and knelt by the edge of it, trailing a hand in it to bring some to her lips. She drank deeply, like this. Her throat felt like she had been smoking, perhaps, but she couldn’t recall why that would be. A tall and smiling man approached, and sat on the edge of the fountain next to her. She regarded him balefully. Interrupting my drink, she thought to herself. He leaned down to rest a bearded chin in one hand, tilting his head at her. “Are you here to check in? A wind of Fate in your sails has blown you right into my lobby, after all.” He said. The Captain just barely held back on telling him where he could shove his lobby. A sudden ripple of laughter through his shoulders anyways made her wonder if maybe she hadn’t thought that as quietly as she had meant to. She settled for staring at him while pointedly (and loudly) sipping at another handful of fountain-water. “Hm. Very well.” He sighed fondly. “Another red-sky morning, perhaps.” She wiped the extra water off her face with the back of one sleeve and snorted. “Doubt it.” She said, standing up and shaking the wet from her hands. “I’m leaving.” The Manager smiled even wider. “Fair winds, Capstan.” The Devoted Captain turned to him, brows furrowed. “Capstan?” “Hm? I believe that’s a part of a ship, or a variety of shanty pertaining to it. Isn’t it your job to know that, my dear?” He teased, eyes crinkling. “No, you… Urgh. You called me Capstan. The hell did you mean by that?” The Captain near-hissed. “I called you Captain, you must have misheard. Perhaps you have some zee-water in your ears?” The Manager insisted. She clenched her fists by her sides and took a very deep breath to keep herself from doing something very inadvisable, and then turned and stalked out the door. The Manager waved to her retreating form with an airy laugh. Ah, no matter. He’d convince her to stay eventually. —

Wolfstack Docks. Almost there. The Devoted Captain’s boots thunked heavily against wood as she scanned the piers for her ship. She broke into a run when she spotted it, a little worn around the edges but not much worse for wear from her absence. Her First Mate snapped to attention first, then the rest. “Cap’n! We were hoping we’d find you back here. We got all the crates from the Khanate unloaded already, but we’ve been waiting for you.” They said, clasping her hand in theirs to shake firmly. “I owe you all an apology. Things got bad at zee, and I am sorry about that. But right now, I want nothing more than to get back on board my ship. Anyone who needs shore leave can take it, but I…” She gazed hungrily at the deck. “I need to feel her boards under my boots again.” The Judicious Boatswain studied her, not unkindly, before laughing gently. “Well, don’t waste time on our account. Go say hello.” He said. Some level of tension eased in his shoulders as she grinned. The Devoted Captain hauled herself up onto her ship, forgoing the gangplank entirely. Once up she immediately took to running her hands over the railings, relishing the wood under her skin. She was home. More than that, she felt like she was whole again, like some part of her own body had clicked back into place with her return. Her crew returned a few at a time, mostly just trying to keep out of her way as she did her rounds. A good few were taking up her offer of shore leave, it seemed, but not so many that they couldn’t zail. The Fidgeting First Mate joined her at the wheel, hands clasped behind their back. “So where are we off to next, Captain?” She laughed. “How about the Court of the Wakeful Eye? It’s been a while since we’ve paid tribute, and with luck, Stone’s light will bless us as we pass.”

The First Mate inclined their head with a smile. “Sounds like a good enough idea to me.”

The Captain curled her fingers around the wheel, took a deep breath, and prepared to zail once more.

[bloodswapkinfessions]

i don't think i could ever post a canon call or anything bc i genuinely don't think anyone liked me or would want to talk to me?? average vriska moment lol. ig if a canonmate somehow stumbles upon this... hi! i was vriska vantas! sorry i fucking lied to everybody and then tried to kill all of you!!!! also sorry to john lalonde specifically you were the only human i talked to and i was still an asshole! lol!

vv i love you i respect you i support you you are welcome in this house

[ziracona]

Okay so if you don’t walk out to start the confrontation with John in episode 4, and listen to the whole thing, it’s actually less worrying in a ‘is he lying’ way if you hear it all but oh my god; he starts to talk to himself about what if Bruce sent the agents after him to attack him because he’s buddy buddy with the Agency, but is like “No! Bruce would never do that!” back, and anyway, I am trying to play my replay Bruce as very core centered around his relationship with Harvey, so he never doubted John vocally about what happened (although he’s thinking it through seriously of course), and the scene is SO different that way. He never attacks you, he’s not confrontational or aggressive, just relieved and stressed and worried. But also, he talks a little more about what happened, and playing this again, I think from how John describes it all, they also wrote John as someone with a dissociative disorder (though not DID obvious because no amnesia and more drift combo type switching than switch-switching), and that’s really cool because you like. Never see any dissociative disorder but DID at all (and DID itself once in a blue moon and then at least 70% of the time totally warped and demonized) but anyway, fascinating and I like that, but it also is absolutely going to color how Bruce is/will handle everything with John, like, you can ask him if he’s back to his normal self again instead of the him who fought the agents, and John will consider and he’s absolutely not for a second but then is and tries to worriedly assure you that he will not be the other one again and it’s nothing to worry about, and I’m just like it’s ok John don’t even worry I’m not judging or scared about that, but yeah I’m glad my playthrough Bruce picks up that kind of thing so fast. Doing so in S1 really helped me keep Harvey as okay as humanly possible, and damn if I’m not gonna do the same here for John.

[aroace-number-eight]

Manifesting AUs I no longer have the time or ability to start on

[cssandraa]

i made a new fic with masq swap john and sherman!! ✨

[darth-caillic]

scream

John is my gay tragic moment

Bit of warning; what I'm talking about here does fall into the bury your gays trope a bit, so if it makes you uncomfortable feel free to skip this one <3

so you have the whole John Smith's life was a lie, and he was doomed to die from the beginning. Like I've never really written a doomed-by-the-narrative kind of thing before, but I feel like I could do something really heartbreaking with this. Like it was heartbreaking in the original show, but I wanna make it so much ✨worse✨

I don't just want him to be the persona the Doctor left behind, I want this mother fucker to haunt the narrative.

If there was one thing that would negatively stick from Sam's adventures, it would be that night during FOB. Sam has a million good/wonderful memories with the Doctor that he'd be more than willing to recount, but John will always be something deep in his mind that he'll never be able to process and forgive himself for.

Also quick side note: Fuck the canon John Smith. The latter parts of Family of Blood are great, and David Tenant plays it so well, but if you think about John's character too hard, he kinda sucks lol. But we're not talking about the canon John Smith, we talking about my John Smith.

He's a broke, pansexual 30-something with little to no self-preservation (dude could have killed himself from falling off a bookshelf if Sam wasn't there to catch him), and can't talk to a man he's crushing on without becoming a stuttering mess. But he's also so kind and gets so excited about the things he finds interesting.

And Sam doesn't even realise he's fallen in love with this goof until it's very much too late. I feel like a monster just thinking about this.

And like it could just end with the Family of Blood, but then I have the Swap AU where John and Sam do get to live a (fairly) normal life together. The thing is in that parallel universe, John is a lot more beaten down by the world. Like I imagine he has the same desire to help people as the Doctor does, but the thing is, he doesn't have the power to do anything. He has no tardis or sonic, no 100s of years of knowledge, he's just John Smith. And it subconsciously depresses him a lot.

So you have this older guy who's just done with the world and resigned himself to be being a closed-off ass, but then there's Sam, who just this bright light, who's seen the universe, and just thinks it's the most beautiful thing ever.

John and Sam built a life where they're just people and they don't guilt themselves into thinking that the whole world is on their shoulders. The world isn't perfect, but then they're together, it's pretty good.

thank you for coming to my scream talk