#I had purple roots most recently

[trans-yllz]

3am.... dye finally in my hair

[leidensygdom]

The underground empire of Mith-Sharorr is best known for its goddess, the Dame of Thorns. And her followers bear her symbols, clad in purple and burgundy, with roses and spines all over their attire. Areel was a fine example of Vyrthae's most devout inquisitors: He had even been blessed by her twisted roots, a mark of faith like none other.

So uhhh i finished this picture! Which I may have linearted in 2019 (fixed recently, then colored). I spent about 10 hours just to lineart that armor back then, only to never finish it. So uh, here's a very long term WIP dealt with. Areel (a drow paladin, oath of conquest) is an older character of mine, but I decided he deserved to be in this year's artfight!

[echo-of-the-eye]

Melanie’s hair through the seasons:

Like most others I usually imagine Melanie with blue hair, but I’ve seen a few designs where she has red hair too and I got the idea that the color changes based on her connection to the slaughter. So here is my headcanons for Melanie’s hair through the show:

(Natural color is dark brown/black, length varies between chin length and shoulder length)

• Season one: the standard blue. Well maintained and recently cut. Only some roots showing

• Season two: purple. she’s had a close encounter with the slaughter at this point. She’s still trying to hold onto her image so she tries to keep it together. Slightly more roots showing

• Season three: hot pink. She’s just been shot. It’s grown out a bit as she’s kind of at the end of her rope but when she gets hired she tries to keep it in slightly professional hairstyles (tied back). Keeping it together for her first office job. When Elias reveals that they’re trapped she stops caring and her hair is messier, but still a hot pink as she gets closer to the slaughter

• Season 4: red. Full slaughter mode. It’s cut short again and more “sharp”. Her bangs are shorter and out of her eyes

• Post bullet removal: the red fades to a softer pink and her hair grows out. Pretty messy and not put together until she goes to therapy

• Post blinding: back to blue! She cuts her hair to have more texture, keeping the side pieces long but cutting the rest, slightly longer bangs so they cover her eyes

[a-writing-otter]

WIP Wednesday - Chapter 10 of The Redemption and Subsequent Death of Bill Cipher

Bill is drinking tea as he looks down at Dipper’s journal. The most recent pages are several detailed descriptions and theories revolving the entity known as Copernicus (Less of an “entity” and more of a “pain in the ass” in Bill’s opinion, but tom-may-to, to-mah-to). After wading through what memories he’s got, Bill has divulged everything he can come up with on both the demon himself and incubi in general.

“So, they’re only as strong as who they’re feeding off of?” Dipper asks, scribbling something down.

Bill makes a halfway gesture.

“They’re only as strong as the strength they’ve accumulated and the realm that they’re rooted to. Copernicus feeds on this realm, most incubi do because it’s a plane rife with people who all hate their lives and are willing to indulge in anything to escape it. The goal is to feed here and tear it up in another dimension, usually the Nightmare Realm. Copernicus wants to feed and tear it up here, so he needs to bring his roots into this realm. If he does that, he doesn’t need Dottie Gleeful anymore and can just walk around and cause indiscriminate chaos.”

“Which is why he needs the rift opened—“

“So he can squeeze his scrawny ass through,” Bill mutters into the tea before taking a sip.

“How do we avoid doing that while getting him out of a person?”

Bill comes a little closer over Dipper’s shoulder.

“Your uncle’s working on that right now,” Bill mumbles before pointing at the book and the drawing that Dipper has rendered of Copernicus’ previous demon form, per Bill’s description. “Good sketch, kid.”

Dipper smiles up at him before turning back to it.

“What does he look like normally?”

Bill sighs at that.

“Well, it’s… a little more complicated.” He stares down into the cup for a second. “I always knew him like that, as a diamond with three eyes, similar to the way I used to look, but a different shape, color, and eyes set-up. He also likes neck-ties and bowler hats.”

“But?”

“But incubi are a lot more fluid with their form,” Bill explains. “He put that form on to appease me. To… To make me feel less alone.”

Copernicus, once upon a time, had been very good at that. Up until a couple of months prior, he hadn’t remembered their time together unfondly. Copernicus had been a pretty good boyfriend, all things considered. They’d drifted the Nightmare Realm together, caused undue chaos, and when Bill had told him about the things he heard, the things he saw, Copernicus believed him.

Another universe, they might have ruled this stupid planet together.

But now Bill wants to “protect it” and that kind of throws a wrench in everything else.

Not to mention his current “boyfriend” situation which is less of a “boyfriend” situation and a “maybe-not-also-kind-of-yes-boyfriend-situation”. Which, like, now isn’t exactly the time to quantify that just because they slept together.

And Bill said that he loves him.

And neither of them have commented on it in the few days since.

It’s fine. It’s good. All fine. Time to figure this stuff out once they dealt with everything else.

Right.

“What’s he look like when he’s normal?”

It takes a second for Bill to conjure the image, thinking back to the dream he’d had before they exorcised him.

“Kind of… amorphous. A cloud, grey-purple in color. Lots of hands and eyes. God, Cooper’s really just eyes. Incubi tend to have very fluid forms, lets them adapt to different forms with ease.”

“So if he is able to get the rift open—“

“No, he won’t just turn into anyone.” Bill lets out an almost bitter laugh. “He’s vain as anything, you saw the way he was with Dottie. He’s got forms he favors and he’ll turn into one of those. But, we’re not opening the rift, so it’s not really an issue that we—“

“We’re going to open the rift,” Ford announces as he walks into the kitchen.

“Oh, look,” Bill glances to Dipper, “your uncle’s gone crazy.”

[dreamer-after-dark]

Wally sprains ankle his somehow. Ouchie!

So Y/N takes it upon themselves to carry Wally either on their back OR carries Wally bridal style.✨️✨️✨️

What would his reaction be?

( Y/N is short but somehow makes it work)

It was a chilly day in late March. A blue sky dotted with thinly pulled puffs of white that drifted between the above and below cast shadows as they passed overhead. The still bare trees rooted deep into the patchy earth offered little shade as they walked along the winding path. A breeze blew shaking the branches filling the silence with their gentle protest. Squirrels ran around hopping excitedly from branch to branch making themselves known as the taste of springs heat teased the afternoon chill. Birds took flight disturbed by their neighbors playful chase.

Wally walked along the curb seperating patches of grass covered dirt and the lower walkways. Left foot crossed in front of the right and then right in front of left. His eyes stayed on the narrow path before him. Perfectly trimmed blue brows knitted in concentration as he walked onwards. He tried not to bite at his lips, but the soft flesh still caught between the sharp canines every now and again. The unwanted nip annoyed him. The privately kept count restarted as he refocused his attention.

Y/N walked beside him on the wider stone path. In their hands they held a cup of warm steaming coffee. Each sip slow as the warmth curled out from within them. Their next breath a slow inhale as they settled into this comforting feeling. They watched Wally take each step without saying a word fascinated by his watchfulness.

Their eyes drifted from his face down his extended arm. His fingers were still stained with flecks of dried paint. A rich purple with spots of gold. Aubergine he had said earlier while they waited for their orders. He had talked about the rich depth of aubergine, how he couldn't avoid it wherever he looked for days.

Y/N asked, "Were you maybe craving eggplant, Wally?"

He laughed, "As much as one could crave something, sure."

The conversation had been pleasant while within the cafe. Wally talked of his most recent work. The pulling together of color. The shapes he had etched on paper and transferred to canvas. The way his wrist had begun to hurt again from overuse.

He had been holed up in his room stinking mostly of paint during the day and weed at night. Y/N mentioned how they had heard him up throughout the night. How they could hear the pipes during his late showers and the clinking of silverware even later. Wally would have apologized had he felt he was disturing Y/N, but he knew it offered them comfort when his presence couldn't be seen. The silence settled over them as they continued on.

Wally, still walking on the curb, must have felt the pull of Y/N's gaze. He chanced a look at his companion. They looked forward now at the sun dappled pathway. The branches shaking with another passing breeze. It seemed to shimmer ahead of them like the tops of rolling waves.

Y/N raised their cup to take another sip. Wally, distracted by the slight dimple on Y/N's lip where the weight of the lid rested, missed his next step. Surprised by the sudden loss of balance he fell. He rolled his ankle and his knee hit the ground as his did his palms. The cold stone beneath him was unkind to his plight. He sucked in a painful breath and held it within his chest as he waited for the pain to pass. What remained was an ache in his unlucky ankle. Y/N was kneeling beside him, cup left to the side of them.

"Wally! Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?"

Wally felt comfort from the concern in their voice, "I think I'm alright."

"Try to stand, ok? Slowly." Y/N took his hand in their own allowing him to lean on them for support. They both rose to their feet together. Wally tried to put weight on his lightly throbbing ankle. A hiss of pain passed his lips.

"You were hurt! We need to get you home. Julie might have an ice pack in the freezer somewhere."

"She might, yeah." Wally felt uncomfortable with the pain that had shot through him each time he shifted his weight. Y/N frowned.

"I'll carry you back."

"No! No, I'm ok, really." Wally tried to walk forward on his own but it was clear with each step that it was overwhelming him.

"I'm picking you up. You can't escape this."

Wally opened his mouth to protest, but he felt Y/N's arms circle around him lifting him up bridle style. Their arms supported him easily almost as if he weighed nothing at all. His face was close to Y/N's, just inches away. He could smell the faint lingering of their detergent. Chancing a sniff he smelled something tucked away just beneath that. His eyes pull away. Y/N met his gaze, warm and pleasant.

"Don't worry, I've got you."

[prince-liest]

I am so freaking feral about orchids, you guys, please help. QQ It's becoming a problem. Anyway, meet my orchids:

This is my favorite phalaenopsis orchid in terms of color! I just really love the wine-red splotches on a white flower. Apparently this particular sort is a very prolific bloomer and is always shooting up spikes. I've only had her for a week or so and just repotted her recently, so I look forward to finding out!

This is my most recent acquisition - I got her for a measly $7 (pot included) at Lowes because the entire spike except for this very very bottom flower had been snapped off at some point! I've good luck re-blooming phals and I really love the soft violet and orange color combination, so I had to nab her.

THIS orchid, on the other hand, I have had since last November, and she is still holding onto the same flowers, which seems absolutely insane to me. In fact, I'm pretty convinced that the flowers that she did drop, she would still have if I hadn't given faulty instructions to my plant-sitter, which led to her and another orchid getting dehydrated and dropping half their blooms. Eight months of blooms! And no signs of stopping! And she's growing plenty of healthy new roots AND a new leaf!! I love her and I love how bright and cheery her flowers are.

These are my last two phalaenopsis orchids. The one on the left is a miniature that blooms purple. She's bloomed twice for me, but she was double-potted with a second orchid, and I was inexperienced and killed a lot of her roots while repotting her, so she's been recovering from that for like half a year. If you look closely, you can see that she's actually just started growing a new leaf, which I'm really excited for!

On the right is a very classic white phal that my mom gifted me. She's also bloomed twice for me, and is also in the middle of growing a new leaf. :)

These are my two oncidium orchids, which have since been repotted and mostly lost their blooms! I got the one on the left also heavily discounted because her blooms were already falling, but as you can see in the photo, she's literally in the middle of growing a new flower spike, haha. The one on the right is currently almost done blooming, and she might be my favorite of all because she's SUPER fragrant and smells amazing!

This is my Ludisia discolor, a terrestrial jewel orchid that I'm really excited to see unfurl her new leaf! She's in a lower-light area of my house and I'm hoping she does well there. If not, I have a different shelf I can move her to later with artificial lights.

And these are some baby Macodes petola cuttings I bought, lightning jewel orchids! The reason people grow them for their foliage is a little more visible in photos than it is with Ludisias, but still not true to real life - the white patterns on both actively sparkle under light! It honestly looks like they've been doused in glitter. These guys are all in sphagnum moss in hopes of rooting them. The cuttings were honestly much smaller than I thought they'd be when I bought them, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I'm keeping them under a glass cloche for humidity as well!

And that's it! Just wait until my violets and streptocarpus start blooming, though, haha. I just. Really love plants.

[boinin]

I didn't want to give too much weight to Hiiragi's tarot reading schtick. Yet, it's an author insert moment, and Kaneshiro loves foreshadowing. I have a worrying feeling that these fortunes may hold true for Chigiri, Barou and Nagi.

Full disclosure: I know very little about tarot, but did some high level reading through Wikipedia and other sources.

Chigiri gets the 15th card of the Major Arcana, the Devil. In the official translation, Hiiragi notes this to represent seduction, betrayal and ruin. Oof.

The obvious connection is to Chigiri's leg—the fortune could be tied to how he was seduced by football, became addicted to it, but will subsequently be betrayed by his leg... leading to ruin.

The Devil tarot card doesn't normally show a bomb, so this is for dramatic effect. Thematically, it implies that Chigiri should find purpose (or know where to seek it) beyond football, ahead of the day his luck runs out. 🥺 Not the outcome I want for our princess, but a second ACL injury has long been speculated by fans. Chigiri himself is aware that it's a risk when playing at this level.

Barou chooses number 12, the Hanged Man. Hiiragi cherry-picks his interpretation; in addition, this card is associated with motifs of self-sacrifice, learning, and change in perspective. It can also be interpreted as a voluntary state, rather than something that befalls a person.

It's a good fit for Barou, who doesn't double down on his ego so much as grow to show why he's deserving of his nickname in the first place. Barou is a king on the pitch, and expects a level of servitude from his teammates, but not without constantly improving his own skills and talent. He's no lazy despot, though despot he may be.

The Hanged Man fortunes supports his emotional outburst during the Ubers match. Barou remarks that he needs the challenge of despair to grow. As such, the trials he puts on himself are deliberate, much like the tarot reading suggests.

Nagi gets #13, Death (because of course he does). This fortune seems to be the most thoughtful of the bunch, unsurprisingly. Hiiragi's interpretation, while intended to provoke Nagi above all, holds up well against what little I've read on tarot.

The Wikipedia page for the Death arcana had some additional nuggets of insight, or rather further ammunition for those of us manifesting a second NagiReo divorce:

Reo is frequently referred to as princely and compared to royalty in the series, with his superfluous wealth and the way he confidently takes on leadership roles among teams. His signature colour, purple, has monarchial associations due to how rare and expensive purple pigments are in nature (prior to the invention of synthetic dyes).

Of course Reo, this royal youth, opposes Nagi's desire to change... seemingly at every hurdle.

It's not deliberate sabotage though, more that they're hamstrung by their co-dependency. Unlike almost every other relationship in Blue Lock, which arose from rivalry or a shared desire to improve, Nagi and Reo's friendship is rooted in the naive promises they made before entering the programme. @thyandrawrites had a great post exploring this recently, which I recommend if you want to delve deeper into the reasons for their underperformance in the Neo Egoist league.

My take is, in essence, if these two could agree to remain friends while moving away from being inseperable on the pitch, they'd both flourish.

Back to tarot: Wikipedia also has a tidbit on reversed cards, which I understand aren't a hardwired aspect of reading tarot (it refers to physical cards that are revealed upside down after being shuffled and dealt). The interpretation Wikipedia gives of an inverted Death card is reminiscent of Nagi's status after he plays against Isagi and Bastard München.

In short: Nagireo bad for one another, and Nagi will undergo quite the metamorphosis in his journey through Blue Lock, if this fortune holds.

---

Analysis aside, I wouldn't put too much faith into what these fortunes mean for the characters. Tarot itself isn't immutable, and for every motif listed above, the characters also have other tropes influencing the paths they take. For example, Chigiri shares the whole hero/princess trope with Kunigami, which has more plot significance than his leg injury at present. Nagi embodies the role of a natural prodigy who has neither the knowledge or experience to deploy his talents consistently. Barou embodies an villain or anti-hero archetype, when juxtaposed with Isagi. Each character has more to the eye than a simple playing card can reveal which is why I'm here yapping at length about them during my lunch break

[seriously-siri]

I was rooting through more works to post and I realized I never posted this. So yay, new content!

For a little background, this is the War/Fall universe (the games, not Netflix show). Might be a little dry at the start, but I really enjoyed writing Megs in this.

 “All Hail Megatron!”

Sparks cascaded down from the wreckage of a small transport and the smell of burnt metal and wiring lingered in the air with the unmistakable, acrid smell of spilt energon. There were a few survivors; whether or not they should be kept alive? Well that depended on who you asked. 

To Megatron, it could go either way. It all depended on what the cargo had to say. There weren’t weapons or energon cubes or any other kind of war supplies on that ship. There were bots. Generic made to order bots fresh off the production line on their way to Iacon. On their way to join Optimus. 

He couldn’t have that, now could he? 

So one well aimed shot later and he was standing on the edge of the small crater the transport made on its impact waiting to see who was strong enough to survive. Strong enough to crawl to their feet and take his hand. Smart enough to stand against the Autobots. Strong enough to join him. 

If they weren’t? Well, too bad they won’t even have a chance to transform for the first time. 

“All Hail Megatron!”, the cry sounded again, less muffled this time as audio receptors reset themselves from the shock of the crash. 

A bot listened to the cheer again as he slowly tested his limbs. Nothing was pinning him down and he couldn’t feel any serious damage. He’d gotten lucky. He hurt, but that would happen when you fall from the sky in nothing but a small metal tube jam packed with other bots; most of whom are now dead.

So much for not getting scratched up on the first deca cycle.

With a disturbing creak in his frame the bot sat up and pushed himself up onto shaky legs. His orientation leader had said there was a war on the horizon. He said they were going to play important roles in the war. He just failed to mention the war had started and was so close. They weren’t even a dozen clicks from the facility he came online in. Were they trying not to scare them? He didn’t even know what his function was going to be. He woke up, got a digital download of the last million years of history and was shoved onto a ship to continue onwards to his life. 

Everyone on board the ship had been a little shell shocked and then they went down. 

Looking for a way out of the crater they had ended up in, his optics focused upon a towering form.  It knelt near the edge and offered a hand to him, which he gladly accepted and found the strength of its grip incredible.  It was with very little effort the larger ‘bot hoisted him out, and only then did the difference in their size become truly apparent. And he was not alone.

A rescue party? 

A myriad of colors and designations were present.  Some shorter than knee joint height, others with the gift of flight. They all stood a pace or so behind the one that had helped him up.  In the middle of their chest plates shone a mark. 

Oh. He knew that symbol. It was the mark of the Decepticons. The ones that he was told were the enemies of this war. The ones that had to be stopped. The bot looked down at his own chest, a red symbol recently plastered to it. Compared to the purple insignia he suddenly felt very small and very weak.

The Decepticon symbol was more distinct.  It wasn’t something one was given, like his, it held far more value than that.  It had to be earned. He didn’t need any history download to tell him that. It was obvious that this group of bots had proven themselves a hundred times over. They stood tall and proud and unafraid. 

He really wished he wasn’t so scared right now. Still, he took what little courage he had and met his savior’s gaze. “Thank you.” 

This one. Megatron resisted the urge to grin.  It didn’t take a lot to figure out which ones were worth keeping around and which ones were, well, scrap. It usually only took him one or two moments to figure it out and it all started with an action. 

Whether or not they had the courage to look him in the optics or not. This one passed, so far.

“No thanks needed.” Looking over the measly few who survived the crash he turned back to the one in front of him. “Who are you, my friend? What is your name?”

He already knew the answer, of course, but he waited nonetheless. The confusion came as it always did. 

Cue.

“You...do not have a name?”

“I am MS 9-78160 of 107511, but a name? I… no.”, The bot glanced at the other stragglers in the crater, but most had halted their ascent to listen and watch.  He processed for a moment and looked slowly upward into the glowing red optics studying him. “You have a name?” 

“I do.” Megatron loved this part. Loved this speech. It wasn’t just for fresh ears to hear. It wasn’t about convincing others to join him. It was a reaffirmation of his purpose, his cause, for all his men. “As do we all.”

Gesturing behind him Megatron turned to look at his small army. “But some of us had to claim our names. Take them and make them ours because we are more than just a bunch of numbers and code.

“AC 9-78." A knowing smirk. "That was my number, my callsign in the mines, but that wasn’t me. That wasn’t my choice. My friends, you are unaware of what this world is, how it works. How we, as numbers, are simply binary for a larger functioning machine. One that gives to the greedy and steals from the needy. One that gives us numbers instead of names. I’ve come to warn you, my friends, about this world that refused to designate me and my brothers as anything more than useful tools. I have also come to give you something I never had.” Turning back to the small group of bots he made sure to catch the front liner’s optics again.

“A choice. A choice to prove your worth. A choice to be a part of something great and good. A choice to change this world for the better- one where we are beyond ones and zeros.” Gathering himself he raised his voice just enough. “I am Megatron and I have come to let you choose. Join me and my Decepticons or...don’t.”

And that was the sound of Barricade cocking his gun. 

Megatron finally allowed himself a toothy grin. “The choice is yours, but I warn you. Be wise.”

“Megatron! Back off! They are not yours!” A familiar voice called out from the other side of the wreckage. 9-78 turned to find the orientation officer, Downshift standing around the side of the wrecked ship. He must have driven out after the transport went down. 

“Oh?” Megatron laughed. “No, they are most certainly not mine. I do not claim ownership of a spark that has not chosen to be by my side. You, on the other hand, seem very intent on getting your property back.” 

“Property?” 9-78 spat the word. “We’re not-”

“No?” Megatron raised an eyebrow. “You have a brand and a number? Surely that means someone owns you.” 

This time a voice floated up from the crater, another one of the survivors. “You have a brand!”

“That I chose. That I painted on myself. It was not stamped on my chest without my permission. What about yours?” Megatron waved a hand in the air, dismissing the argument. “If anything my point has been proven. I came here to free you. He’s come here to put you back in shackles.” 

Downshift shook his head desperately. “Don’t listen to him recruits! Megatron is a master of lies and-” 

“Oh shut up already.” A purple and yellow bot to Megatron’s right raised an arm, hand trading out for a shotgun. 

“Just a moment.” Megatron flashed a wicked grin and turned slightly to his left. “Barricade, your spare.” Holding out an arm Megatron waited for the mech’s spare blaster pistol to drop into his palm. Barricade always had a spare or two. Sometimes three. Turning back to 9-78 he held out the gun. “Why don’t you see what you’re capable of.” 

Raising a wary hand, 9-78 hesitated before wrapping trembling fingers around the gun’s barrel and turning it over in his hands to look at it. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean?”

“Put it down!” Downshift pleaded. “Guns were not meant for you!” 

9-78 turned to look at his orientation officer. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Megatron chuckled. “9-7 yes? That’s the code for messenger, am I right? It means you are to be a delivery boy. Traveling to and from with writing and items at everyone else’s whims.” 9-78’s optics got a little darker, a little angrier. “I believe they make you in bulk because with this oh-so-savage war going on, your life expectancy is minimal, at best.” 

This world Megatron presented was one that offered a fate worse than termination.  Endless cycles of what? Nothing? These… Decepticons, they sought a better world as he had said.  They were unafraid to take it if they had to.  He turned again toward the crater.  The same look was upon every face, including Downshift’s.

Fear.

They were afraid. Of what? Of Megatron? Of the Decepticons and their weapons? It was becoming clearer. They were afraid to choose. To choose means to ask.  Asking yourself, which path. It was already so obvious to him, and they could not see it. Blinded by their fear of the choice, they could not comprehend the outcome of either option. Casting one last look over his production mates, all identical to him in form, obviously not in function, he turned back toward Megatron.

“I choose a better world.”  There was no further hesitation. He would not be like the others. He would stand out. Gasps came from the others behind him, but he stood proud of his choice, and awaited its outcome.

One of the minicons, purple and silver, shifted and leaned into another that looked similar, red and black. “Quick thinking, that one. I like 'em.”

“Shut up Rumble.” Barricade snapped. He took a step closer to Megatron. “Lord Megatron, the others seem hesitant. Perhaps you didn’t inspire them quite enough.”

Megatron didn’t react to the bribe, but right now he was looking at one of the saddest bunch of bots to come from manufacturing he’d ever seen. Perhaps with the haste and need of more numbers the quality had gone down. Which then begged the question if anyone here was worth the effort.

But he was also looking at one of the bots that might just turn tides in the future. Reaching out he gestured to 9-78. “Come.”

The bot responded almost immediately, taking three shaky steps to plant himself in front of Megatron who turned him to look back at his group and held him in place by the shoulders. “Will any of you be joining your brother? Will anyone be standing by his side?”

No answers. 

“My Decepticons.” Megatron turned to his lieutenant just behind him. “Would you be so kind as to motivate them for me?”

9-78 was unsure which sound coming from behind him was more disturbing; the weapons fire, the screams, or the laughter.  It was less than a full cycle and it was almost over.  Only two remained. Himself and Downshift.  

From the other side of the crater he called out. “You were so quick to choose this?! Traitor!” 

9-78 cocked his head in question glancing down at the gun in his hand and then back up at Downshift. “Traitor to what? I’ve only made one decision in my life so far. How can I betray something I never believed in? Something I haven’t been taught to be a part of yet?”

Megatron grinned.

Barricade knelt down next to 9-78 and quickly righted the gun in his unpracticed hand and raised the bot’s arms to shooting level. “I always like to aim for the face.” He whispered before backing up a couple of steps.

9-78 took one step forward, aimed the unfamiliar weapon across the crater, and sneered. “You can’t betray a free choice.”

The bolt of plasma that seared from the weapon struck true and detonated Downshit’s head, erasing the look of both horror and shock.

He handed the weapon back to Barricade and looked back toward Megatron, unsure of what he would find.

Megatron didn’t hold back a grin. “Well done. To stand up against such odds. To be so alone and yet so alive. Conviction and good sound logic run through that head of yours.” Placing a hand on the bot’s shoulder he looked out into the crater and at the strewn about bodies- the final one across the way still smoking. “You have proven yourself to us, a maverick among cowards. Welcome, my brother.” 

Maverick. That… I like that. I think I’ll take it.

-----

Maverick is my friend's OC, a little naive, a little lost, but he's got spirit.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter four

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

It was in your first year of middle school that you began sleeping outside.

Every morning, your homeroom teacher would have your class write in a graded journal. There would be different prompts, but every Monday and Friday was the same. On Mondays, you had to write about what you did over the weekend, and on Fridays you’d have to reflect on the wonderful week you’d had and ask yourself how to make the next one better.

You’d sit in that classroom, your knees jerking about as you stared at that stupid journal. You’d sit in that classroom, writing about how you’d gone grocery shopping with Mom. She had bought you your favorite ice cream. You had spent the evening doing homework in your room that has a bed, in your house that has furniture. You liked the way your house smelled. You had dinner with your parents every night - homemade, of course, unless it was Thursday. Your parents took you out for sushi on Thursdays. You know, that yummy place by the pharmacy?

You’d sit and write all that after waking up in the corner of a parking garage. Or maybe it was a friend’s house, or that quiet spot in the park you’d found, or a playground slide, or behind your complex’s dumpster. Mom was a memory. Sort of, anyway, you’d forgotten what she sounded like by then; the voice is the first thing to go when you’re forgetting somebody.

Every Monday and Friday morning, you’d put your daydreams down on paper, the most boring lies. Other times, you’d be sleeping on top of that journal. Other times, you weren’t there at all.

It’s humid out. The sun is setting and painting everything orange. The tree you’re leaning against has roots that intertwine and spiral throughout the soil, peeking above ground in most places; it’s uncomfortable to sit on them, but it isn’t mud. Your school bag lays next to you, your homework on your lap. You wave a mosquito away from your leg. You shift the weight off of one of your thighs; a bruise is blooming there, large and circular and nasty. There’s dried blood where you picked the glass out.

It’s hard to focus on the math on the page. You grip your pencil and try to turn your thoughts away from it all, but you can’t. Your eyes burn and you wipe roughly at them. Your teacher extended this assignment just for you; it was due today. She said she was disappointed in you. You told her to go fuck herself.

It’s not fair. Packets of math problems are the last thing on your mind. You’re thinking about whether he’s drunk today or not; you’re thinking about the whispers of your classmates, how your breath is bad and you’re too quiet; you’re thinking about where you should sleep tonight, because he was drunk, and he was angry, and despite falling into a rage far greater than his you can never beat him.

The rhythmic buzz of the cicadas, soothing to most, is getting too loud for you. You kick at the soil. You want to vomit.

The sun is setting fast. The orange tint to everything is turning to a faded purple. It’s hard to see the questions; you hold the paper close to your face and squint.

Something rustles. You turn around to face the noise; it’s a man. He’s dressed in what looks to be a hero costume. You’ve seen him before when you hang around here after school. He patrols through here, you suppose. You turn back to your homework.

He stops by your feet. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. He crouches to your level. You swallow.

“Hey.” You look up from your work. He’s smiling calmly at you. “What are you doing out here?”

“Homework.” You know this game. You’ve played it with counselors, teachers; people who can’t mind their own business. “Being outside helps me focus.”

“It’s getting late.”

“Uh-huh.” You glare at him. You glare at most people. He goes from crouching to sitting across from you.

“I’ve seen you in this park a lot recently.”

“Yeah. I hang here after school.” An edge of your math packet crinkles between your fingers. “My Mom said it was fine.”

“Mhm.” He nods at your homework. “What are you working on?”

“Um. Math.” You show him the packet. He looks it over.

“Ooh, wow. That’s hard stuff. Want help?”

“No.” You take your math back. “I don’t need help.” 

“You sure?”

The questions stare back at you.

“…just on this one.”

And he helps you. He doesn’t ask about your thigh or where your parents are. He just sits there and teaches you math.

☆

It’s impossible to be alone with your thoughts. 

You sit up. There is nothing. You can hear your breathing. You look towards the window; you lean forward and peek through your blinds. The sky is pink. You turn away and lie back down. You turn around again. You flip onto your stomach. You reach for the pills and water on your nightstand. You stare at the opened pill bottle before you.

You put the pills and water away. You can’t be here. You stand, trudge towards your door. You focus on the way your hand turns the handle; your wrist turns, the muscles in your fingers move. There’s something here that scares you.

That something follows you down the hall. It follows you into the elevator; you stand in the corner so that it can’t be behind you. It follows you into the commons and sits with you at the dining table and on the couch. You end up outside.

The air is cold; your cheeks and ears pinch. You’re sitting on the sidewalk outside your dorm building and leaning against the wall, knees to your chest. It’s better out here, you can breathe. All you can comprehend is the cold, the way the sky is pink and grey, the trees with hundreds and thousands of leaves. The world is mute.

You tried to kill yourself once. You were in middle school. It was the same thing that followed you just now, except you listened. You had gone into your bedroom, laid on your mattress, and then swallowed a bunch of pills. It was kind of romantic. You stared at your popcorn ceiling and counted the bumps. You made peace with everything in your head. It was really, really nice, like time had stopped just for you.

And then time unfroze and you got dizzy. You got up, walked around your room. You felt sick. You looked outside your window. You pinched yourself. Your stomach started to hurt. You wanted to stay standing but the pills brought you to your bed. Stop, you thought, this is going too fast! But you signed yourself up for this. You cried and cried and cried.

You exhale and your breath is a fog. You watch it rise and disappear. Somebody is running along one of the sidewalks, between the trees. It’s Bakugo. He’s coming this way. He’s got some gray sweats on, a black tank top, earbuds in his ears; his shoulders and neck are flushed from the cold and the run. His eyes are on you as he hits the dorm steps, jogs up them; he sits hard on the concrete in front of you, panting. He’s sitting like the delinquent he isn’t.

Bakugo takes an earbud out and combs his hair back. “Why the fuck are you up?” He’s looking at you like he always has. The edges of your lips quirk up in a little smile.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“What, ‘cause of that shit?” He gestures vaguely at your head. “You look like you belong in the fuckin’ psych ward.”

“Thanks. I get to talk to a social worker today, actually, so, who knows.”

“Fuckin’ course you do.”

And the two of you walk inside like it’s just another morning. You sit at the kitchen island while he rummages around in the fridge, about to cook himself a hearty breakfast or blend some kind of protein smoothie, no doubt. You rest your head on the counter, nose snuggled into the crook of your elbow; it��s just the sound of oil popping and the knife hitting the cutting board. It smells like eggs.

You peek out from your elbow. Bakugo is turned away from you, nursing his eggs with a spatula. He takes the pan off the heat occasionally, scrapes at the eggs with delicacy; he always makes them scrambled. His head is nodding a bit to the music playing in his earbuds. The telephone stares at you.

The pulsing in your head is starting up again. You should have taken the pain meds.

“Good morning!”

You turn around to face a sleepy but cheery Midoriya. He smiles at you as he walks to the fridge. There’s an uncomfortable silence as he gets himself a glass of water and a pop tart before settling down in the seat next to you.

“How’s your head?”

You stare at him. He rips open his pop tart and starts munching away.

“It’s fine.”

“That’s good. Did you see the group chat?”

With what phone, dude?

“Um, no.”

“Okay, well, we’re going to have a movie night in Mina’s room tonight.” Midoriya looks at you expectantly.

“That’s great.”

“So, you’re coming, right?”

You go to say something in the negative. Then, there’s a chunky burning in your chest, up your throat. You swallow the tail end of it. Vomit falls in clumps down your chin. Midoriya’s stuck in his seat, a hand clamped over his mouth; yeah, he seems like the type to be sensitive to this sort of thing.

“One sec,” you say, and you leave. You hold your shirt carefully so that none of it spills.

A couple of hours have gone by with you in your room. Your shirt is hanging to dry on the balcony. Everybody else is in class, you heard them walking around. They knocked on your door. Mina kept asking you to open up but you pretended to be asleep. Now you’re alone, sitting on your bed and doing breathing exercises to ease the pressure in your chest.

You decide to lie down on the floor. You crawl and shimmy your way beneath your bed frame. You place your hands over your ears. It’s cramped inside but you’re away.

Somebody is knocking on your door. You blink your eyes open to see the bottom of your bed frame. It looks like you managed to get some sleep. Aizawa is calling your name.

“Is everything alright?” He says, and you wiggle your way towards the end of your bed.

“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry.”

“Can you open the door?”

You nearly stumble over yourself as you get up. “Yeah, just a sec.”

The door opens and he tells you it’s time to see the social workers. You meet them at a noodle place. They don’t look like they’re working; one is wearing a hoodie and jeans while the other has on a casual tee. Aizawa leaves you with them after a quick introduction. They lead you to a quiet booth in the corner of the restaurant.

“This place has some great ramen, y’know.”

You lift your head from your crotch to look at Hoodie. He smiles at you. Tee nods in agreement. This is an attempt at conversation, a conversation that will end up with them asking you, ‘so, how often does your father beat you?’ while they ogle at the mess on your head.

CPS came a couple of times when you were a kid. You didn’t particularly like it. Dad would shower and brush his teeth. Mom would remind you that you can’t tell them anything; you would never see each other again. Then she’d have you help her clean everything up, scrub the mold from the bathroom ceiling. When they finally dropped by, the questions were blunt in a funny kind of way. Then, they were gone.

“Would you like anything?” It’s Tee’s turn, now. “How about a coke?”

“Sure.”

“Lovely. So, UA, huh?”

“Yep.”

“What are you studying?”

“Heroics.” Unfortunately, you realize, Tee’s a bit better at the conversation thing. “It’s nice.”

“I bet. Being admitted into that program is very impressive.”

Your face warms up and you shift in your seat. “Thanks.”

Hoodie cheers when the food arrives. You sip on your coke and stare at the table. Your friends would take you out for ramen a lot over the weekends, that was nice. You frown. They still go, you just never come —

“Mmm, this is good.” Hoodie slurps up his noodles. “You didn’t get anything, want some?”

“No, thanks.”

“Oof, I’m gonna get full soon, though.” Tee nods in agreement between spoonfuls of her miso soup. “Please? You gotta help me out here.”

You stare at Hoodie’s ramen. It smells good.

“Okay.”

And you’ve got a serving of Hoodie’s ramen in front of you in no time. You end up with some miso soup, too.

“Um, thanks,” you say to them. They just smile at you.

You scoop the soup into your mouth and it’s warm and tangy and just a little bit gritty; it’s got green onions as a garnish. You used to make yourself miso soup at home. Microwave water, mix the miso in, and it was dinner. It was good. You would feel the warmth of it in your chest and feel good.

Hoodie and Tee spend the rest of your time eating with more attempts at conversation. You know what they’re doing and yet it doesn’t make you feel the way Midoriya does.

You slurp up your last noodle. Hoodie and Tee have been done for a while. Hoodie rests his cheek on a fist.

“So, you okay with talking about last week?”

“I guess.”

Tee interrupts. “Before that, we’d like to get your current situation figured out. You’re seventeen, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re staying in the UA dorms?”

“Yeah.”

She nods. “That’s good. However, your father’s in jail at the moment. Do you know any family members who can act as a temporary guardian in the meantime or help you out?”

Dad’s in jail. Great. “Um, no.”

“How about your mother? Do you know where she is?”

“She probably went to her parents' place.” You chew on the straw in your coke. “But I dunno if she would still be there.”

“Do you know her parents' address or phone number?”

“They live in Kyushu somewhere. They changed their numbers when my Mom left, I think. Or they’re dead.”

“I see.” Tee drums her fingers on the table. “Do you have any trusted adults that you can rely on?”

Trusted adults.

“Kind of.” You find it hard to tear your eyes away from your drink.

“That’s great. Do you think they’d be willing to be a temporary guardian for you?”

“No.” There isn’t a good way to talk about this; they wouldn’t understand. “We’re not on good terms right now.”

“What do you mean?”

You cross your arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Right.” Hoodie jumps in, pats Tee on the shoulder. You scowl. “Remember, we’re only asking these questions so that we have the right information to help you. The more you tell us, the better off you’ll be.”

You have a lot of things you want to say to that. So many that you can’t find any words to say at all.

“How about your teacher?”

“What?” You look at them for the first time in a while. “Aizawa?”

“Yeah.” Hoodie smiles. “He’s familiar with the system. Plus, he offered to take on the role if you didn’t have anybody else in mind.”

“He did?” You look between Hoodie and Tee like they’re lying. They seem serious. Your face scrunches up. “I mean, if he wants to.”

“Okay, we’ll let him know.” Tee’s putting more effort into the whole friendly-social-worker thing. “Thank you.”

You all sit in silence for a moment.

“Can we ask you some questions about that evening now?”

“Sure.”

“Alright. First, is there a history of abuse within your family? Physical, emotional, sexual?”

“Physical and emotional, I guess.”

“What kind of physical abuse?”

“He didn’t hit me, it was more like -- he was kinda rough. He throws things a lot.”

“Okay. And how did you get injured last week?”

“I was running down the stairs and my Dad threw a bottle at me.” You stare at Hoodie and remain very still. “I fell and cracked my skull open ‘n stuff.”

“Do you have any y--”

“No, I don’t have any younger siblings.”

Hoodie half smiles. “Right. Thank you.”

You stare at the table for what feels like the hundredth time. How many times have you been asked those questions? Those blunt, funny questions? And yet, this is the first time you’ve told the truth.

☆

“Oh my fucking God, finally!’

Mina throws her arms around you and continues screaming in your ear. You’re standing at the doorway to her dorm, the rest of your friends inside. Aizawa told you to stop moping around in your room; he’s right, it’s kind of pathetic. So, here you are, joining your friends at the first movie night you’ve attended since… what, last year?

“You bitch, do you know how worried I’ve been?” Mina manages to pull herself away from you, tears in her eyes. She’s always been a crybaby.

You offer an awkward smile.

“Ugh.” Mina roughly pulls you in again, though this time without the yelling. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Her hair tickles your nose. Your chin is tucked into her shoulder. “Yeah.” She smells nice. You close your eyes. “Thanks.”

She leads you inside and it’s strange. Kaminari is on the floor, leaning against Mina’s bed, Kirishima sitting next to him (though he’s getting up, grinning, now that he sees you). Sero is passed out on the bed, his legs thrown off the side. Bakugo is sitting on the other side of the bed on his phone.

“Oh my gosh, you made it!” Midoriya runs up to you with Todoroki not far behind. You haven’t seen Todoroki in… a while, and you’ve definitely never seen him in his pajamas.

“Hey, yeah, I did.” You smile. Who knows why he still talks to you when you’re such a bitch to him. “I think I’m feeling better.”

That’s a lie. You got out of the hospital yesterday, haven’t showered in, like, a week, your head is always aching, you threw up this morning, rotted in bed for the entire day, and then there were the social workers -

“That’s great!” Midoriya looks happy. You chew on your cheek.

“Yeah. What are we watching?”

“Just, uh, the best movie ever!” Kirishima practically squeals as he greets you by dapping you up; because of course he does. “Dude, for real though, so glad you’re okay.”

You thank him. How are they so nice?

“Okay, okay,” Mina shouts, “before we start the movie, how about we do some truth or dare?”

Everyone cheers except for you, overstimulated by the noise, and Bakugo, because he hates that game.

Cheers erupt again because Mina has alcohol. Soju and some Smirnoff Ice. You sit down next to Mina in the circle and have a feeling this is one of those nights; the kind where Mina is throwing up in the bathroom, you have to drag Kaminari into his room, and then you fall asleep in clothes that smell like cigarettes.

Mina chugs one of the Smirnoffs and places it in the middle. Someone remarks that this is spin the bottle, not truth or dare (which is sort of correct), and Mina tells them to shut up. The big bottle of soju is being passed around as she spins the bottle.

It lands on Sero. Mina groans.

“This guy always picks truth, he’s so boring!”

“This dumb bitch--”

“I don’t care if you think this is spin the bottle or truth or dare or whatever, I swear to God if you try to tell me one more time --”

You rest your head on a hand, sitting criss-cross. Aizawa should have given you guys a noise complaint by now. Bakugo is handed the soju; he immediately passes it to Kirishima. Kirishima takes a gulp and then passes it to you. It’s heavy in your hand. You like soju, the kind that tastes like juice. Hawks isn’t picky. He said if he had to choose, it would be Patrón tequila.

You drink from the soju and give it back to Mina, who, of course, also takes a drink. Sero asked for truth. Mina asked him some dumb rhetorical question and now it’s his turn to spin. It lands on Kaminari; he says dare. Sero tells him to chug a Smirnoff Ice, which is actually not as bad as you were expecting. Kaminari’s spin lands on Mina. She says truth, which causes Sero to start yelling at her. Kaminari asks her what the best sex position is, ew, you wrinkle your nose at him. You and Bakugo share an is-this-dude-for-real glance.

“Okay, um, I have limited experience, but I’m gonna say doggy.”

Your mouth drops. “But that’s so uncomfortable.”

To be fair, the soju just kept getting passed around. You don’t even register your mistake before Mina is squealing and shaking you by the shoulders. “You fucked someone? Who? Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me I thought you were a virgin this whole timeohmygodmygodugmdgdogggg--”

You smack her hands away from you and cover your ears. “Mina, stop, my head hurts.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m sorry, I just got excited.” She holds your face and your anger disappears. “For real, though, why didn’t you tell me?!”

Your face heats up as your hands fall back to your lap. For some unexplainable reason, you sneak a look at Bakugo. He’s staring at you. Well, so is everyone else, but he looks away when you lock eyes.

“Um, I haven’t, actually.” You don’t sound convincing to Mina. “I was just, y’know, talking in hypotheticals. Like, it sounds like it would be uncomfortable. Y’know?”

Kaminari bursts out laughing. Your face is burning. Mina is drilling holes into your face with her eyes. You look at Bakugo and he still isn’t looking at you.

“Um.” They don’t know the half of it.

You stand, step over Todoroki to get to the door, and shut it behind you. Mina is shouting for you inside and they’re arguing, or something. Ugh, it’s not that big of a deal. You sit against the wall and drag a hand down your face. That was unbelievably dumb.

It genuinely is an unpleasant position. Whenever you’ve done it like that, it’s hard to breathe, your face is getting smushed into the mattress or pillow or whatever. This isn’t helping how warm you're feeling. You pinch your cheeks. Shut up, brain.

Mina eventually comes out and apologizes. You walk back in and everyone is back to normal. You find it hard to look at Bakugo. Everyone decides the game is done (neither spin the bottle or truth or dare, it’s been deemed ‘game’). Lights are turned off, Mina’s TV is connected to her computer, and she’s got one of the Fast and Furious movies starting up. Kaminari, Sero, Midoriya, Todoroki, and Kirishima have taken spots on the floor. You climb onto the bed and Bakugo is next to you. You’re weirdly conscious of him, his shoulder, the way your knees are almost touching. Mina jumps into bed next to you and soon you’re finishing the soju bottle and cuddling with her.

Instead of movie nights with your friends, you had movie nights with Hawks. You would take the metro to Fukuoka and walk to his place. Once he got back from his shift and showered, the two of you would pick something to watch and fall asleep to it. The two of you end up doing other things now. Which is fine.

Mina is asleep, sprawled out nearby. The guys are passed out on the floor. You turn to look at Bakugo; he’s awake. You’ve been crying on and off ever since the others fell asleep. You go from feeling everything all at once to nothing at all. That’s how it’s been ever since you woke up in the hospital, actually, the way you seem to teleport through the day, through conversations. You feel absolutely nothing except for the pounding in your head and then you’re hyperventilating beneath your bed.

Hot breath spreads across your neck. There’s a hand holding your hip, the other on your waist. You’re on top of him, sitting on his lap, you can feel the strands of his hair beneath your fingernails. Hawks usually had a hand up your shirt by now. You scratch the scruff at the back of his neck, twirl the strands between your fingers; you love his hair without all the styling they make him do. You pull back. It’s Bakugo looking up at you. You’re on top of Bakugo. You’ve definitely been making out. His entire face is red.

You pull him off the bed by his hand. He follows you out of Mina’s room and into yours. It’s dark, you lead him to your bed and he lays down next to you. You hug him and your eyes are open wide; the enemy is in the room. Bakugo asks you something but you just stare into his shirt. You’re clutching to him like he’s your mother and you beg him not to leave. He’s not a very good kisser but neither are you.

[tragical-romance-and-all]

Bruised Fruit

march x farmer | FOM

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

synopsis:

When a new farmer moves in she unexpectedly becomes intertwined with the local blacksmith. Both carry baggage that they can unpack together.

romance - slow burn

word count: ~1500

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This all started when I overheard two of the regulars at Three Horses Tavern talking about the farm up for grabs in Mistria. Apparently, word had been sent to the guild that the town was in disarray after the most recent earthquake. In exchange for helping around town, they were giving the deed to a house and plot of farmland. It seemed like a dream, this is all I’ve ever wanted, a home…

 And even better, everyone I spoke to about this endeavor sounded disinterested, as if it really wasn’t all that good of a deal. I figured we all have different goals at the end of the day. Besides, I know this is meant for me. It feels like something is calling me there. I felt even more cemented in this when I met the  Baron’s kin Adeline and Eiland. They were very welcoming and friendly, showing me around town. 

Now I’m just lying in my bed, in my house. My house. This is so cool! Today everything feels right. Tomorrow I will get the first round of crops in the ground. I shut my eyes and drift off into a blissful sleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wake up to the sound of wind chimes and birds being shrewdly overpowered by my alarm clock. 6:00 a.m. sounded like a reasonable start last night but this morning I’m having second thoughts. Yet I still force myself up, feeling a bit more alive once I turn off the alarm and am greeted with the pleasant sounds of mornings in Mistria. I take a deep breath facing the window and I think to myself, “This is it, this is the fresh start that will stick.”

I get dressed wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, it’s soft against my skin. I pull on baggy overalls and a pair of socks. Pulling my hair from the front of my face I notice my roots could use some touching up. I had dyed my hair a deep purple a few weeks ago and my roots are growing faster than I expected. I’ll have to find out if the market in town sells hair dye. I tie my boots and head outside.

I had peaked in the tool shed next to the house yesterday, but now that I am really looking at these tools I see that they are not in the peak condition I had hoped for. For the most part, things were worn but still usable. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered the watering can has a quarter-sized hole near the spout on the bottom. Not to worry Eiland said something yesterday about the blacksmith carrying tools in his shop, I can check after I pick up the seeds. I grab the shovel and hoe and start my way towards town. 

After crossing the river, I see a cute cottage to my right. Just behind the fence shiny blonde hair and a bright smile greet me, “Hi you must be the new farmer! I’m Celine, it’s so nice to meet you!” 

“Hi, my name is Stella! I guess we’re kinda like neighbors.” I meet her with the same enthusiasm. It’s been a while since I’ve been around nice people. Celine goes on to tell me a little about herself. She grows flowers and makes beautiful bouquets out of them while also helping at her parent's shop. I share a little about myself but nothing too revealing. We wave goodbye and I continue into town. The market shop is quaint and exactly how I pictured it. 

“Welcome in! You must be the new farmer, we’re so happy to have a new face in town.” A jolly-faced man at the counter greeted me. He has the same bright smile as Celine. His friendly voice started again, “My name is Holt and that lovely woman over there stocking the shelves is my wife, Nora.” The woman turned around a waved at me and I reciprocated. 

“Hi Holt, my name is Stella and I actually just met Celine as well,” I said with a smile. He appeared to be elated at this, “Oh I just know you two will be fast friends in no time!” He practically shouted this and I let a giggle slip out. 

“You must be here for seeds though and not just chitchat, what can I get for you?” Holt’s customer service kicked back in and I had him help me pick out the best seeds for the spring. I got some turnip, potato, cabbage, and strawberry seeds. I let Holt know I would be back to get a cherry and lemon sapling later this week. I also asked about hair dye, Nora let me know they don’t typically carry it but if I ask Balor the merchant I met on my way into town yesterday, he should be able to get it. With everything loaded into my backpack, I left the market and walked north in the direction of the blacksmith. It was pretty nifty of Adeline to give me a map of town. “This is really helpful,” I thought to myself. 

I walk into the blacksmith, a little bell chimes at the top of the door. There is a subtle and unpleasant odor lingering in the air, a voice calls out from another room letting me know he’ll be right with me. The voice is rough but there’s a soothing quality to it. I turn to look at some of the merchandise while I wait. I can sit still but I must be looking at something new frequently. I hadn’t noticed the man the voice belonged to had approached me until I heard a scoff. I look up to see a young guy around my age. He has burgundy hair sitting messily atop his head with a headband tied around his forehead. I assume to catch the sweat, based off his muscular build I can tell he must be the blacksmith and not just some apprentice. 

“Oh, it’s you. The new savior farmer in town. That’s what everyone has been saying right?” His tone was cold and harsh. I could tell he already didn’t like me. He didn’t even know me, but then again that never stopped anyone before.

“I don’t know about anyone calling me that but my name is Stella and it’s nice t-” I try to get out quickly but as if he could sense my rapid onset anxiety he cut me off. “Listen, I know you just arrived, but I wouldn’t get to comfortable. You’re not gonna last around here.” 

I was taken aback by this, it’s as if he could see right through me. He knew my past present and future. He knew about all my failed attempts and of course, this one would be no different. At least he had the decency to warn me right? To give up before it goes too far. It always goes too far. 

I snap out of it when another, taller man joins us. I didn’t realize how tall until he stood next to us. He towered over both of us and the blacksmith already had some height on me. His intimidating stature was mellowed by his large grin and puppy dog eyes. 

“The names Olric, I hope my little brother March wasn’t being too rough with you,”

He put he hand up against his face, covering his mouth from March’s view and spoke as if his hand would block the sound as well. “Between you and me, it’s our fault. We didn’t socialize him right when he was younger and now he doesn’t know how to play nice. Don’t worry though he’s all bark and no bite.”

I could see March rolling his eyes but it didn’t stop me from letting out a laugh. In a more annoyed tone now March spoke again, “Whatever Olric. Anyway, new girl, Stella is it? Did you need something or did you just come in to bother us?”

I am reminded of the task at hand and share my plight of the leaking watering can. March pointed me to a shiny new copper can. I bought it despite it being the same cost as all the seeds I had just bought. But this is an investment after all. I walk home on a slightly different path than I came trying to become familiar with my surroundings. 

My mind drifts to what March had said, that I wouldn’t last here. What if he’s right? I don’t know how many more fresh starts I have left in me. What if other people in town agree with him? But Olric seemed so reassuring. Maybe it was just March, maybe he’s just a sour guy. He can’t really hate me, he doesn’t even know me. And I’m sure if he got to know me he would see that. I know I’ll just make sure I’m extra friendly when I see him. 

I smile to myself as I reach home again. Now to start the field

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading! It's been a while since I've written anything but March has me so inspired right now.

[lennons-lemonade]

the sally face gang because i recently realized that there truly isn’t ever enough art of them🫶

except, in true lennon fashion i had to add all of my headcanons and modernize them !!! here’s some info about each of my designs for them!!

in my design, the gang as a whole makes up a band called LAST (their first initials). they have matching necklaces for their corresponding instruments. i’ll go further into detail for that during their personal designs!

I was never able to totally describe Ash’s style, but some version of mall goth (not pictured here ofc) and biker-ish were the closest descriptors i could find. she and sal have hair dying parties where he’ll dye her tips and she’ll touch up his roots. idk how to draw ladder-laced docs, but if she were following lace code then they’d signify that she’s lgbtq. i think she doodles on her arms (similarly to larry) but her parents bug her about it, so she wears long fingerless gloves. ash is LAST’s singer and bassist! her necklace has a small, poorly drawn, microphone on it!

Larry’s style was much easier to describe. he’s a metal head with a side of grunge. he’s wearing homemade patch pants with random patterns and other details about him on the patches themselves. i still don’t know how to draw ladder laces, but larry does follow lace code and his laces are yellow for anti-racist and purple for lgbtq. he’s a huge doodler and spends a lot of time in school drawing on himself. he’s got Sanity Falls’ logo on his arm nearby LAST’s logo. he has other random paranormal details (a ghost and an eye) dotted around on his arm aswell. he’s LAST’s backup guitarist and will do vocals when the song calls for it. his necklace is a pick to signify this!

You may notice that Sal has a chest. in my mind he’s always been transmasc, but for this drawing i decided to draw him when he wasn’t binding. I describe their style as hippie grunge most of the time, but i think they also dabble further into the grunge style. he doesn’t draw on his shoes himself, but every now and then ash or larry will. since their mom was blonde and blue isn’t a natural hair-color, i thought them dying their blonde hair blue was really fun! he doesn’t always keep make up on his mask, but he didn’t have the time to clean it today. they’re LAST’s lead guitarist and have a pick necklace to reference this!

Todd is generally under-appreciated. i think if he were to generally put more effort into his appearance he would dress in dark academia. he got his left ear pierced with ash and his right pierced with neil. i feel like in most fanart his hair is suspiciously straight, so i did my best to make it generally curlier. he’s telling larry some kind of fun fact and the gang is reacting to it. he doesn’t draw on things around him like larry and ash, but he does write poetry! dead poets society is his favorite movie of all time. he’s LAST’s drummer because i think he needs some kind of outlet to deal with his anger. he also helps with band management. there are two drumsticks on his necklace!

[nuwisha-laughs-last]

FIC TIME

Gale x Female Tav

Set in Waterdeep after the events of Act 3. Gale and Tiefling rogue Tav (Hecate) are moving back to his tower just before the wedding and Hecate is Not Comfortable™

Fluff, comfort, and kisses. Oh and Tara’s here too.

Content warning for mild racism toward Tieflings

*****

Moving In

Hecate stood frozen at the front entrance of Gale’s townhome. Her nose scrunched as she considered it. No — townhome was much too modest a word. This was a townhome in the same way the High Hall Palace was a three-bedroom house. The blasted thing had to be at least five stories, perhaps even six. Gale had described it as a tower once and he wasn’t wrong. Elegant, rounded detailing cradled each of the windows, the edges of which were tastefully filigreed in a rosy gold. The double doors loomed, swirls of some pearlescent stone inlaid into the fine, dark wood.

“Of course,” she muttered to herself, “A regular wooden door just wouldn’t do. No sir. Have you even seen the gilding? Perish the thought.”

Hecate didn’t even want to touch the door handle, which gleamed as though recently polished. It had to be a spell, she was sure of it. She shifted her rucksack and it dug into her side as though prodding her forward. The carriage was still parked behind her but most of its contents were Gale’s, who had already rushed inside. She couldn’t blame him. After everything they’d been through, the first sight of home must have been sorely welcome, or so she assumed.

Distractedly she thumbed the ring on her left hand — a simple thing, just a thin band of silver. She’d expected something more gaudy from Gale but it seems he knew her better than she thought. Occasionally she’d notice a dim blue glow out of the corner of her eye. He’d enchanted it of course but, infuriatingly, refused to tell her how. ‘Not until the wedding’ he’d said with that sly glitter in his eyes that she adored.

The porter banging down the steps jolted her from her thoughts. ‘Dey’, he’d said his name was, a young half orc with an easy smile. He eyed her quizzically as he passed by and she jerked a thumb at the lurid edifice with a wry twist of her lips,

“Might need a hose-down before I walk in there, or bare minimum a palanquin.” Dey laughed and nodded, diving back into the carriage for the rest of Gale’s luggage.

Hecate chewed on her bottom lip, tail twitching in agitation. Her pride couldn’t let Dey lap her again so with a decisive shake of her head she strode for the steps, taking them two at a time as though speed would keep her courage from failing her. The door was still partially open from the porter’s egress and she slid inside without so much as a single hair touching the beautiful oiled wood.

Standing in the foyer, she was even more keenly aware of her drab clothing, the plain, soft cotton seeming more and more dull by the moment when compared against the gilded crown moulding and the plush purple runner that led from the door, down the hall and cascaded up the splendid spiraling staircase.

Hecate licked her lips, feeling rooted once again. What was this? Nervousness? She couldn’t remember a time she’d ever felt this way. What a hideous sensation. It sauntered about, regaling her with a rather haunting chorus:

You don’t belong here.

Her tail lashed the floor behind her and she very nearly fled back to the safety of the veranda when —

“Hecate? Darling, where in Faerǔn have you gone off to? Come upstairs, quickly now!”

With some difficulty she swallowed those words while curiosity unfroze her legs. With only a moment more of hesitation, she bounded up the steps, the top of the stairs revealing one, large open chamber. Dimly lit, she could just make out the walls lined from floor to ceiling with books upon books of varying color and size.

Her heart fluttered as she spotted him, Gale, standing at the center of this room as though he were a fixture in it. His back was to her, facing two heavy curtains on the far wall. His brown hair was pulled back into a half knot, the rest brushing the shoulders of a fine jewel-blue vest, emblazoned with spiraling golden runes. Hearing her footfalls he looked over his shoulder with a delighted grin and beckoned her to him, leading her by the hand to the thick hanging curtains.

“The time is nearly upon us,” he said cryptically, almost in a whisper.

“What are we doing?” Hecate breathed conspiratorially.

Holding the curtains so Hecate couldn’t glance past him, he peeked quickly between then closed them again, anticipation and delight dancing about him.

“You’ll see. Are you ready? It should be just about….there!”

With a flourish he threw open the curtains, revealing the setting sun framed squarely by the rail and roof of the balcony. With a soft touch on her arm, he turned Hecate back to face the room and she gasped, stunned by the sight of the evening glow limning the spines of thousands of books in brilliant gold. A gorgeous grand piano, now revealed by the sun, began to play softly, and Hecate felt as though she had stumbled into some holy chapel, reverence and awe settling into her as she surveyed the scene.

Hecate gaped openly for a moment until Gale snorted softly and Hecate realized with a blush he wasn’t even looking at the room, his brown eyes meeting hers when she glanced his way. He stepped closer, touching his forehead to her temple and wrapping a hand around her waist. She leaned into him, still awestruck by the size and beauty of the library; of this room that was nothing if not the embodiment of Gale’s soul. Shyly her tail hugged around his calf and she turned her face towards his, her fingers tracing the faint lines of gray in the hair above his ears. He breathed a smile and then…

“Mister Dekarios!”

Hecate’s bones nearly ejected from her skin as Tara flapped through the open balcony doors. Hecate’s tail spiraled off of Gale’s leg so quickly that it almost pulled his foot out from under him. With a yelp he staggered to attention facing the tressym who had perched on the balcony railing.

“Tara!” Gale exclaimed, much like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie tin.

Tara sniffed, eyeing them both haughtily.

“Good heavens Mister Dekarios, I very much would have appreciated forewarning of your arrival. As great a wizard as you are, I do not believe this feat to be beyond you.” Gale opened his mouth to respond but Tara wasn’t finished,

“And would you look at the state you are in! Traveling for weeks in a cramped carriage, why you must be exhausted. Pleased to make your acquaintance again Hecate, my dear, a pleasure indeed. Now, would you not agree to a certain level of lassitude as would befit a journey such as yours?”

Hecate blinked, startled at being so suddenly addressed. Her gaze flicked toward Gale in a mild panic who mimed bags under his eyes and sleeping, jerking back to inspecting his own fingernails when Tara glared his way.

“I…ah…yeah?” Hecate stammered, still not entirely positive what ‘latitude’ meant. She’d look it up later.

Tara simply sniffed and regarded Gale again with a flick of her wings,

“I thought as much. Well, be that as it may, your repose must wait. You have a visitor Mister Dekarios, I’ve seen him to the first floor lounge. He has been plied with tea but I would not keep him waiting long. I bid you both a good evening.” With a twitch of her tail, Tara leapt from the railing and beat her wings, carrying her aloft to the windows of the upper levels.

Gale and Hecate looked at each other for exactly one second before dissolving into laughter.

“I swear she’d still cut the crust off of your sandwiches if she thought she could bully you into it,” Hecate gasped between giggles.

“More the fool, you,” Gale wheezed, “Didn’t bet on having two mother-in-laws, did you?”

Hecate groaned, “Oh Hells. Will you dance with her at the reception?”

Gale let out a loud “Ha”, wiping a tear from his eye, “As though she would give me a choice?” Still chuckling he leaned forward and pecked a kiss onto Hecate’s forehead, right between her spiraled horns, before drawing the curtains and plunging the library into darkness. It only lasted for a moment, however, as several magelight lanterns flicked on as soon as the sunlight vanished, much to Hecate’s delight.

“Well. Shall we see who has come to call? You can leave your belongings here, the porter will bring everything up to our apartment in due course.”

He held his hand out as though seeking to escort her. Hecate chewed her lip again, hesitant to leave the entirety of her worldly possessions unattended; but with a sigh she acquiesced, setting it to the side before taking Gale’s arm, the gesture causing her to grin despite her misgivings.

“Alright. Lead the way Mister Dekarios.”

Nose stuck high in the air, Gale ponced over to the staircase, stopping only when Hecate jabbed a finger into his belly, right where she knew it tickled the most, and he deflated into laughter like a parade balloon.

He lead the way down the stairs, cutting to the right at the bottom and making his way through one of the many doors into a powder blue room, bedecked with ostentatious and, Hecate thought, rather uncomfortable-looking furniture. The upholstery was pristine, complimenting the room with a rich blue brocade. Exquisite baroque detailing adorned the inner walls and ceiling and if Hecate felt out of place in the foyer, this room easily doubled that sensation.

Tripling the sensation was the visitor, a high elf, sat primly on the edge of a chair, sipping at his china cup as though he might choke on anything but exactly three drops of tea. His long, red-blond hair cascaded over his shoulders in a perfect, shimmering sheet. It blended beautifully with his red silk tang suit, the high collar emphasizing his delicate neck. Golden toggles flashed in the magelight as he turned to regard them.

“Gale Dekarios, as I live and breathe,” he said, his voice unfairly melodic.

Gale smiled deferentially, leaning forward to greet the newcomer, pressing his cheek to his, first on the right and then on the left in a friendly gesture before stepping to the side, holding his arm out toward Hecate,

“Ashmead! How lovely to see you again. It has been too long. Please, allow me to introduce my lovely fiancé. This is Hecate. Hecate, this is Ashmead, one of my oldest school friends.”

“Oh, shit! A trouble maker-in-arms, then?” Hecate grinned.

“Ah—well…no actually. I managed to do that all on my own,” Gale ducked his head with chagrin. “No, Ashmead here was the picture of perfection at Blackstaff.”

“Mm,” Hecate hummed, leaning in and lowering her voice conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, I won’t hold that against you. Pleased to meet you.”

Hecate stepped forward with a smile, hand outstretched. Ashmead raised his in response and Hecate grasped it firmly. The elf’s hand remained limp however, as though he had been expecting a mere brush of the fingers or, perhaps even a kiss on the knuckles? Whatever the case, Hecate immediately loosened her grip with a blush, holding his hand awkwardly for a moment before letting go and stepping back slightly behind Gale as though he might shield her from making any more blunders.

Ashmead regarded her with a stiff smile,

“A pleasure, of course.” He returned to his teacup, his arm moving slow and graceful as though through water; it made Hecate feel bulky by comparison.

Gale pulled out a chair and nodded toward it with a welcoming smile. Hecate obliged him, sitting as daintily as she could muster, forming the mental image of sitting on an egg. Once she was settled he drew up a chair for himself and set to pouring himself a cup of tea, only after Hecate declined. Ashmead observed them both for a spell before setting his cup down with a sigh.

“You’ve been quite a hard man to see, Gale. First holing up here, taking no visitors, then vanishing at the drop of a hat. I must admit, I wondered if you would ever return from your…camping trip.” His nose wrinkled slightly on ‘camping trip’ as though he could smell the distasteful idea of it. Hecate scowled slightly but Gale merely chuckled,

“Believe it or not I find myself missing it sometimes, if I don’t think about it very hard,” he said with a laugh. “Now don’t miss my meaning, I don’t know that I would ever rough it just for the fun, but there’s a certain…camaraderie to it that you just can’t find anywhere else…” He trailed off, eyes catching on Hecate’s and his smile warmed her despite her unease.

Ashmead sniffed, dispelling the moment.

“Quite. Well I do hope you’ve been keeping up with your reading at least. There have been several utterly fascinating new editions this year. I just finished ‘A Study of Spores and their Supraterranean Effects’. I have it here. Sven is a brilliant mind even if his methods are…questionable.”

He passed the book to Gale who skimmed through key sections, eyes flickering side to side rapidly, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Questionable? He’s conducting experiments without consent! That’s downright reprehensible—“

“Yes but look at what his efforts uncovered,” Ashmead interrupted. “Distillation methods, potential therapeutic applications—“ Gale snapped the book shut and handed it back to Ashmead, shaking his head,

“I don’t think it’s wise to support this kind of experimentation. I dearly hope it is not being added to the curriculum at Blackstaff, I must have a word with the Dean…”

“Don’t act so rashly, Gale. None of his test subjects came to any real harm. Besides, he has an entire line of studies that you would be a fool to ignore. In fact, there’s one you might like,” he said, nodding toward Hecate who snapped back to attention from the glazed-over daydream she had been lost in. “It’s called ‘Of Cambions and Cornugons: a Study of the Hells’. Have you read it? Truly riveting.”

Hecate stared, frozen between baffled and livid. She was used to thinly veiled comments on her Tiefling heritage but she had not been prepared for it here.

“Why would she…”Gale started, bemused, but cut off when he saw the look on Hecate’s face and she could almost hear the gears whirring in his head as he tried to piece together what had just happened.

Slowly Hecate stood, gaze leaden on Ashmead,

“Actually I would like to hear the answer to that question. Why would I like this book?”

She’d give him the benefit of the doubt, but only the once.

Ashmead blinked, staring at her as though she had asked him the most foolish question in the world.

“Why, because of your devil blood of course—“

Gale stood up so quickly his chair nearly tipped over, the legs making a horrible screech that Hecate pettily hoped had scratched the floor…just a little. She held up a hand, stalling whatever Gale was going to say, her eyes never leaving Ashmead’s. She smiled but it was chilly and too perfect to be genuine.

“I apologize. Gale and I have just arrived from quite a long trip. We appreciate your visit but I must insist we take some time to unpack and rest. May I see you to the door?”

Ashmead’s eyes widened, and he looked at Gale as though to see if he was going to allow this to happen. Gale merely nodded his head toward Hecate, deferring to her with one, small gesture that braced her as surely as his arms around her.

With a wounded sniff, Ashmead rose and plied them each with the smallest of bows before bidding them farewell and sweeping out, brushing past Hecate as he went. Hecate didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she heard the front door slam shut. Gale was at her side in an instant, fingers tucking her hair behind her ear, cupping her cheeks in his palms.

“I am so, deeply sorry my love. I didn’t think…had I known…” Hecate quieted his stuttering, placing her hand over his and resting her head more fully in his palms.

“It’s alright. Well…no it’s not, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I’m just…tired…” Hecate stopped, acutely aware of the prickling at the corners of her eyes. Mortified she ducked her head. Crying over one idiot? Gods she must be more exhausted than she thought…

A finger at her chin, a gentle pressure that lifted her glassy eyes up from the floor. He gazed at her, into her, eyes so soft it was almost painful. Hecate could feel those words again, burning like bile in her throat,

“I don’t belong here…do I?” she choked out.

Gale didn’t answer immediately. Instead he drew her to him, one hand around the small of her back, the other pressing her head to his shoulder and stroking her hair.

Hecate grit her teeth,

“Finery and riches…shit, Gale, that’s not where I live, that’s what I take. I’m not supposed to be here. I belong in some dungeon somewhere, cussing at a door and breaking my lockpicks…”

Gale snorted.

“I know,” he finally said. “That’s the Hecate I fell in love with, after all. You wear dirt and grime so beautifully…but you also wear fine things well too.” He pulled back so his gaze could find hers again.

“You belong here because you belong with me, and I with you. If this place doesn’t suit right now, it’s because it was a home and a life built around a lonely, privileged bachelor who couldn’t have ever dreamed of finding someone like you.” He placed his forehead to hers familiarly.

“I don’t want to return to my old life, I want it to be better. And it will be because you’re here.” He smiled and placed a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

“In addition, consider this: I am not married to this place. I’m marrying you. If we need to make our home somewhere else, it can be done. Though I do not envy whoever has to move that library because I’m going to be insufferable about it…” Hecate laughed, and it felt good. Gale chuckled as well. Then he leaned forward but stopped short so his mouth hovered just barely over hers, breathing a small laugh when Hecate shifted forward for the kiss that wasn’t there and scowled at him.

“You’re everything. Don’t ever forget that,” he whispered. Then his lips brushed against hers, so soft they could have merely been a breath. A low, growled noise rose in his chest and suddenly his kiss pressed into her, deeper and more insistent as though he could restrain himself no longer. One hand snaked around her lower back, pulling her to him with more force than he seemed capable of, pressing her to him. Her stomach clenched with a needful burn as his tongue licked boldly past her teeth and her fingers curled into his hair, completely ruining the half-knot. Neither of them cared.

He kissed her again and again between wide grins, eliciting a giggle when he spun her around. Finally they broke apart, falling into a comfortable embrace, Gale rocking them back and forth soothingly. After a silent moment he huffed,

“What an absolute bastard.”

“Mm,” Hecate mumbled into his chest. “To quote Lae’zel—Chk, Istik.”

“Oh I see you have been diligently studying your Githyanki.”

“I’m so glad you noticed. I know a noise of irritation and one whole insulting word.”

Gale chuckled, “I am fairly certain that means you’re fluent. Regardless, I still have half a mind to call Ashmead back here. Make him apologize…”

Hecate laughed, then reached into her pocket, dancing something small and shining between her fingers.

“That’s okay. I took his house key. Assmeat will have to come back for it. He can apologize then.”

Gale stared for the briefest of moments before dissolving into laughter, nearly collapsing into Hecate’s arms.

“I can not believe you called him Assmeat. How did no one think of that at school?”

“Because while you were pretending at being a twelve-year-old boy I actually am one.” Hecate grinned.

“I can’t argue with that,” Gale chuckled, his thumb stroking softly against her cheek. He bent down, his nose brushing against the side of her neck and slowly he trailed a column of kisses along its length.

“Alright ‘Future Missus Dekarios’,” she could hear the grin in his voice, “Shall we adjourn? There are things I want to do to you right now that are hardly appropriate for this room.”

“What the hell is appropriate for this room?” Hecate waggled her eyebrows.

“An excellent point. I can think of only one thing—“

And with a quick twist he hooked his arms under her legs, hoisting her up into the air and against his chest. Hecate giggled with delight and tucked her tail safely over his shoulder before pointing toward the staircase,

“Onward porter! Or be thee limp in leg as well as in spirit?”

Gale head-butted her playfully which turned into an affectionate nuzzling match between them which further devolved into Gale covering her face in as many kisses as he possibly could without dropping her. Then, with a tip of his head, a glowing dimension door opened beside them and one step took them through, the faint echo of ‘That’s cheating!’ ringing across the opulent foyer as the door closed behind them and vanished.

****

Bonus scene:

*Gale is letting Tara edit his wedding vows*

Tara: Mister Dekarios perhaps consider a comma in this section, you do like to go on.

Tara: Hecate, dear, would you not agree that Mister Dekarios is rather severely afflicted with verbosity?

Hecate: ….does that mean a lot of words?

Tara: Yes my dear.

Hecate: Ah…yeah, he’s pretty verb-city.

*Tara dies a little inside. Gale sincerely tries to explain the meaning of verbosity complete with word root and origin. Hecate is done with her speech already, it’s three sentences, Gale loves it.*

[painsandconfusion]

Back To Your Roots

With You - Part Fourteen

(tw: chemical burns, noncon haircut, yandere, domestic abuse, kidnapping) [Previous | Masterpost | Next]

Robin’s hair was red.

At least, it was right now. Ida assumed, anyway. She changed it a lot. Never quiet. Never simple. Never the same for more than a week at least in style, or a month in color. And she’d only had Red for two weeks now.

It was only a couple weeks ago that Robin finally convinced Ida to dye their hair. 

“A little something special - to showcase who you are and how you want the world to see you. Not just how you were born,” she’d explained to them.

Ida had been wanting to for a long time. They’d stared at the midnight blue dyes on endless hours of scrolling in bed, and brushed off when Robin asked if they wanted to dye it. 

“Nah,” they’d hummed, tucking their phone onto the nightstand. “It would stain my hair.”

“So?” Robin just curled up closer. “Then you can bleach it or dye it again. It’s your hair. You can do whatever you want with it.”

“..it’s too much upkeep. I’ll stick with what I have.” They’d pressed a kiss to Robin’s hand, and that was the end of that conversation.

On the other hand, Oren always loved their hair. Loved it long and straight and white as fallen snow. “That’s what makes you special,” he’d said. “It’s something unique about you - so few people look like you, why would you ever want to change that?” He’d kissed their lips, and that was the end of that conversation. 

His words must have still haunted them, even years after they’d left his house, running off into the night and leaving him with a knife in his gut within crawling distance of his cellphone.

It had taken almost five whole years until Robin eased Ida into the idea of making their hair their own again. Not a trophy or a reminder of how they were so different from everyone else. Just…theirs. Nothing special. Theirs. 

The hairdresser was so gentle and sweet. She’d massaged shampoo into their hair and chattered endlessly with Robin as she worked. She’d tried to pull Ida into conversation, but Ida shrugged off most of it, more than content to listen to Robin chatter about their cat and her books and the newest cardigan she’d found at the thrift store. Neon green, this time. A ‘perfect match’ for her navy skirt and royal purple scarf.

Ida so often wished they could be like her. Wished they would dare to wear bright, crazy colors and outfits made up of seven different styles. Bold enough to change their color weekly and chatter with hairdressers. 

But..Ida was changing. They’d put a little color into their life now. 

They’d let someone else touch their hair now. 

They were outside and talking to other humans, and even getting a small strip over their left ear shaved away so they could pull the midnight blue and silver streaked mass off to one side. 

It was so recent that it barely felt like a memory. It felt as it were still happening. That Oren’s fingers in their hair were the hairdresser’s. That his humming chatter was local gossip. That the aches that puckered across their flesh was just their imagination. 

Oren’s voice made quick work of that breach to reality. 

“You know, I’m not sure why you did this. I just really don’t understand,” he muttered, fingers tracing over their part where silvery white had started to grow underneath the midnight blue, pushing it up and out of the way. 

“It’s not you at all. Were you trying to look like someone else??” 

Ida stared at the kitchen wall, numb and hollow and silent. 

His hands slid down their jaw and gripped it gently, tilting their head back until their eyes met his. “..that wasn’t a rhetorical question, dove.”

Ida’s stomach twisted as their eyes searched his. Trying to gauge how much danger was behind those words. 

“..I wasn’t trying to look like anyone else.”

Oren frowned, thumbs brushing down their cheeks. Resting at the top, then sliding down again. Again and again and again. Petting them like a cat.

“Then why did you do it?”

Ida’s face pinched slightly. Of course he wasn’t going to go long without mentioning their hair. Why did they think they’d be able to get away with that? As if he just wouldn’t notice that their hair was blue now. 

“..I…I don’t know.”

Oren sighed, leaning down over the back of the chair to press a lingering kiss to their forehead. “Precious thing,” he murmured. Nuzzling a little. “You don’t know anything when I’m not around, do you?”

Ida’s stomach was starting to churn now. Eyes squeezing gratefully shut. They’d take his lips over his eyes. Gladly.

Fingers curled in, almost bruising at the underside of their jaw as Oren’s breath warmed against their forehead. Ida strained, back aching at the angle as they squirmed away from bruising fingertips.

They hadn’t answered. Right-

“..no-”

Evidently that was good enough. His fingers unwrapped slightly, smoothing up and through their hair again. “We’re going to fix this.” With one more kiss to their forehead, he pulled back, taking their hand to guide them to standing.

Ida chewed on their lip, but followed as he wanted. Anywhere he wanted. 

Evidently that was out of the room. The floorboards seemed to creak a little louder than usually as they crossed the foyer and moved up the steps. Into the bathroom.

..that wasn’t figurative, was it. He was going to get rid of the blue. Get rid of what tiny piece of Robin they had here. 

Ida’s eyes burned as he dragged a chair to the sink, turning it around. He guided them to it. 

Ida didn’t fight it. 

How could they? 

There wasn’t any stopping this, so why bother. 

They just sat, hands curled around each other in their lap. Stomach in knots.

Oren turned on the tap, fingers pressed to their forehead to tilt their head back over the sink. Ida was good. They followed the push and slumped down in the seat so their head rested on the edge of the porcelain, hair ready to shift into the stream. 

Oren pressed a quick kiss to their lips as he tugged their hair out into the bowl and started thoroughly wetting it. “This will be good. You’ll start feeling so much more like yourself again. Maybe you’ll start singing, hm?” He took a moment to dip and nuzzle their nose with his. 

So, he wanted them singing more.

Ida took a note of that, letting their eyes close against the water and the proximity and the light in their eyes. “..maybe,” they breathed. Staying quiet. 

They tried to think back to that little barber shop. 

Tried to feel Robin’s hand holding theirs. 

They let the world slip away, and let themself believe, if only for this moment, that the hands in their hair were that hairdressers - Ida couldn’t stop kicking themself for forgetting her name-

They imagined the radio playing crackling, distant music - a song they’d heard a million times but never remembered the words to. Country. Warm and upbeat and nostalgic. 

Robin’s voice. Janet Finch plots debated, and local gossip. Not Oren’s soft humming. Not his hands. Not the smell of bleach too strong for this to be the hairdresser’s. 

Tin foil. That was familiar. 

Oren tore it with his teeth, wrapping lumps of hair up in the stuff before tilting them up in the chair. A washcloth dabbed at the drips that moved down their neck.

This was it. There wasn’t any stopping it now. Even if they ran and screamed and rinsed it away, the bleach had plenty of time already to damage the midnight blue that Robin had to painstakingly supported / pestered them into getting. 

Ida could see her face in the darkness when their eyes were closed. Her little hands poking and prodding and fretting with how the fresh lockes laid. 

Gentle. 

Simple and kinda, yet bubbling with excitement and compliment.

But that was then. And this was now.

Ida’s face pinched, eyes finally opening again to look up at Oren. As the world pressed back to the scent of pine and bleach and citrus, Ida’s scalp started to tinge. Started to scratch and burn as if hair was being ripped out at the root. 

Their hands lifted, distress on their face as they reached for the foil - only to be caught in Oren’s.

“Don’t touch it, it needs to sit.”

Ida felt a whine press from their throat, hands pulling against Oren’s. “..O-..Oren, it…it burns-”

He shushed them, leaning in to press a kiss to their nose. “It won’t take long. I don’t want you half green now just because it’s uncomfortable.”

Tears brimmed at Ida’s eyes as they started pulling against him in ernest. “N-no it- it’s -ssomethign’s wrong this isn’t right-”

Oren’s jaw set. Fingers tightened around their wrists until bones shifted under his grip. A pressure that promised blooming bruises by tomorrow. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. It’s already going to be ruined with how much I’ve done with it now. It’s not like you can save it.”

The tears slid hot down their face as they shriveled under his grip. “Ore, please-I-Im nnot lying - it- it hurts Oren please-”

Oren’s lips just pinched into a thin line. “It’s only going to take a few more minutes. Just relax.”

Ida’s head shook, pulling against him again. “O-ren please-”

Oren groaned, letting go of one of their hands to reach up to the foil. “Just chill, it’s n-” He stopped, frowning. Touching the foil. Again. “..why’s it so hot-?”

Ida just dissolved into sobs, free hand now clutching at his shirt. Some unknown ghost was ripping their hair off by scalpy bits, shoving flame at the tears to cauterize it. It flickered and tingled and screamed at them in a cacophony of sensation and warnings. “Ore- pl-lease-”

Oren finally let go of their other hand, shoving the foil off. 

It splat into the sink easily. What should have freed them left nothing dangling down to touch their neck - even at this angle. 

“..fuck,” he muttered, faucet turning on again. “Head back again, love - I’m gonna rinse this out.”

That command, they had no problem following. They shoved themself toward the water, begging it to put out the fire - even if Oren’s fingers on their scalp burned, the water soothed it and helped shove away the worst of the pain. 

“..didn’t even take out half the fuckin’ color,” he grumbled, scrubbing at their scalp until Ida was crying fresh again. 

They caught a glimpse of the foil as it dropped into the trash can, long strands of blue and white flickering through the air before falling out of view. 

..how much was gone???

Their hands pressed over their face, shielding their eyes and stifling their sobs into muffled shadows of what they could be. 

They held still. 

They were good.

They didn’t move besides shifting as per his instruction as he shoved out the last of the chemical, dried their hair, and fretted with it, trying to coax what was left to frame their face. 

Ida couldn’t look at him - they certainly couldn’t look in the mirror. 

There was a long silence as he stared at them. 

“..I’m just gonna shave it. You didn’t need it, anyway. It’ll grow back fresh and white and perfect.”

..what were they supposed to say to that. 

Nothing.

They were supposed to say nothing. 

They just trembled a nod, face still tucked safely into their hands. A kiss pressed to their knuckles, and he started moving. 

They held still. Listening to him opening the drawer. To the chord unwinding. To the plug clicking into place. To the soft electric hum. 

They whimpered, but didn’t move as the teeth of the razor scraped across furious scalp, rippling burning pain down their spine. They pulled their legs up, arms wrapping around them. 

They held still. 

They were quiet.

They were good.

They didn’t move or breathe more than necessary as piece after piece fell down around them and to the ground. 

They’d probably be the one to clean them up later. 

It barely took a minute. Then it was gone. 

Everything was gone.

“Go on, dove. You can look now.” A hand slid over their hair, roaming over the half inch strands and ghosting over burns they didn’t have to see to know they were there. 

Ida looked. They looked if only to appease him.

A stranger stared back at them through the glass. Eyes red and white from crying. Hair hacked down to a patchy remnant of what remained. The white strands were so thin, they barely seemed there at all. 

Oren’s shirt. 

Oren’s home. 

Oren’s dove.

They turned, pressing their face into him. Escaping their own reflection. 

Oren cooed soft laments as he scooped them up, keeping their face tucked into him as he carried them out of the bathroom. “It’s all done now. It’s all done and you did so good for me, dove.”

They clung to him even after he set them down on the bed, muffled sobs curling into his shirt even further than their fingers - their entire self buried in him. Wishing he could make the rest of the world go away. At least for a moment. 

Oren was good. He obeyed them as they did him. He moved easily and smoothly, pulling them both onto the bed and moving blankets up and over Ida so they wouldn’t have to let go of him or even look up. He cradled them close, rocking back and forth a little as he pressed kisses to the edges of the burns. “It’s all done. All done now.”

This time, Ida couldn’t bring themself to pretend it was Robin’s arms holding them.

He’d never be her.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @kesskirata @wormwriting @batfacedliar-yetagain @paranoiaxagent @siren-of-agony @lwkshrav @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions  @pinkieglitterheart  @whumpasaurus101  @shameless-dumbass @darlingwhump @whumpy-catfish)

As always, just lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

If anyone knows where heathen-whump wibbly-wobbly-whump hold-back-on-the-comfort and mable-donut went please tell :(

.

This is the color Ida has(d), by the way-

It's shorter and thinner, but that exact same color and fade.

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

ok well fuck now I'm thinking about new haven wards !!!! specifically like. how would their appearances differ from what we know in pd to in. worm world. like AS FAR AS I KNOW . with my somewhat limited knowledge. there are no fucking ELVES in worm. so virions just got. normal ears . but what else is different !!!! when condi first described vyncent in s1 he actually said he had black hair. so i think it might be cool to make his hair darker more of a natural color. maybe shitty box dye purple with black roots or something. proabably permanent bags under his eyes because he feels like he always has to keep watch for something (it's hard to get much rest at night when you're by yourself in an unfamiliar place and spend your waking hours making potential enemies out of other capes). I almost think he would be a little bit more jumpy, more quick to react if someone were to come up behind him without announcing themselves. pull a hidden knife first ask questions later kind of survival instincts. if william still has his white streak i think it's dyed instead of natural from his powers. and because i like 2 project on my favorites I want him to have the little under dye in the back too. for me. actually probably the Most Normal Looking out of the three of them ironically? because hes very new on the cape scene, probably the most recent one to get his powers, they haven't had as much of a physical effect on him yet. his weird things are probably more stealth at first; reflective eyes in the dark, colder than normal skin etc etc. things that you wouldn't really notice in civilian clothes . not sure if the whole decay thing still applies but if it does i imagine he'd eventually have to put more effort into his civ appearance to keep his identity hidden (gloves to cover discolored fingers, maybe a fake pair of glasses to have an excuse for the more obvious reflections, etc etc) . dakotas hair is maybe closer to natural redhead ? or he used the same shitty box dye as vyncent . I don't know if dakota would have as many scars here as he does in pd- he's still an adrenaline junkie so it's possible but I also think he knows he doesn't have accelerated healing so while he probably still has More Than Normal I don't think it would be quite as extensive. im still endlessly amused by the thought of people seeing him as failsafe and assuming he's a brute on appearance alone so he gets to keep the muscle mass . the circumstances of his parents death are still vague but if he did have a close call run in with the s9 I think he should have SOME sort of physical mark from that. just bc I think that's so fucking tasty. maybe give him a tattletale style jack scar . NO YOU KNOW WHAT. REALIZING THIS AS IM TYPING. that deal . that deal that Jack made with Purity's kid where he was like "ill let you live because I want to see if you get strong enough to kill me in a few years" you know what I mean!!!!! something like that seems extremely on brand for dakota cole. holy shit.

[thebirdarts]

My 2023 Year in Art

Because of my sporadic drawing, I just picked 12 pieces of mine, spread out across this year, that i felt had an impact or shows an one on my overall artistic style, from the first time I've experimented with something, and when i solidified it.

i nerd out over my own drawing under the cut!

In chronological order, starting with my portrait of my first WOTR commander, Alaun.

Original Post!

Not only is this is representation of me getting into WOTR, its one of the first times i did smoother and softer shading, something i haven't really done since. Additional, i can easily see the line between the metals i rendered here and Cecio & Celia's more stylized metallic elements. I miss Alaun, he was ahead of his time as a good kc of mine. its a fairly big full piece, and one I'm still proud and fond of today!

Original Post!

Estinian! god i miss ffxiv... Here is the root of my bright idea to use pencil brushes for colored shading, to get a textured gradient, and i used it in the metallic golds. its also my biggest art post on this blog! it is a big & detailed piece, and seemed daunting at the time, but i just put in the time, and was rewarded for trying to make sense of the armor [i used my own dragoon as a model for how thing actually interacted & what was what] Im still stupidly proud of it. it was my second piece of FFXIV fanart, and the beginning of many more!

MURA! original post

Given this is about drawings that have impacted me, i think this one is an easy contender for the one that's done so the most. Drawing Mura reminded me how much i loved fashion & clothing, and drawing it! I've always has a tremendous amount of fun with her drawings, and it all started here!! Mura also was the first time i repeatedly used a colour pallet for a character, with her pinks and purples now ingrained into my mind!

Original Post

Out of all my drawings, Estinian and Mura are tied for how much ive drawn them, which Estinian has an advantage due to my large bank of FFXIV screenshots & my redraws thereof. This was great fun, not only for understanding the armor better, but having fun experimenting in colour pallets! something i can see has carried on into my non-literaly coloured Celia & Cecio drawings!

Mura<33 original post [has link to its original art]

My first head only drawing in a long time, and somewhere where i experimented with coloring, as well as the introduction of Muras netted and braided hairstyle! in fact, you can see the visible brush strokes as what would eventually be the stylized shading used in my more recent portraits! The shattered stained glass. looks cool as hell. and was my first time majorly experimenting with layer options, something that would become very common for me.

Mura again<3 original post

Look narrowing it down to three was hard, i drew her so much, she really re-inspired me to draw. Lighting<33 you can really see here the style i would use on Cecio, just using a pencil brush rather than a roller one. its a piece Im very proud of, and one day i will light everything as consistently as this

Miss Star-Sailer<33 original

Expanding the working with a limited color pallet from Mura, and once again rendering metals, this piece of my wol has a special place in my heart. just... her<33 She<33 her muted and dark colour pallet, her expression... i love this one<33

GEORGIE!!! original

my baby boy<33 Im finally drawing curls... and the brightly coloured iris & tiny white pupil may have become a thing of mine.

Celia<33 original

the limited colour pallet, the non literal colours, the sketch peeking through, the shading on both clothing and skin, the hair? this is like the payoff to all theses previous drawings. i used a different pencil brush, and goodbye 6b and hellooo procto pencil!!!!

Cecio<3 original

If the previous drawing was the payoff, this is one of the stages of refinement, taking the new stylized skin shading and applying it to a portrait where the face is the focus, and damn!! Cecio<3

original

A compositional outlier, this piece earned its place for me revising what has to be one of the most drawn compositions of mine - the eye. In many ways its the closing loop of a full circle, the brushstrokes exactly how i would shade with my pencil on paper, the lines and movements coming naturally to me, in an entirely different medium. the main difference is colour, while my pencil drawings were firmly grayscale and i resisted all attempts to get me to use colour, this is practically a sunset, using my knowledge of not just colour but layer filters to create bright and overly saturated variations. full circle, just add colour.

Original

And the final piece! a portrait of Cecio, showing off all i have developed, from the metallics, to the stylized shading, colour pallets, the use of filters for alternate versions, the hair, the face, the new brush!!! its not my last drawing of 2023, but its a fitting end.

- end note.

if you will permit me to get sappy, 2023 has been hell of a year, but damn if it hasn't been pointing upwards. in 2023 i came to understand i was disabled, and my whole life changed course. My art became not just a hobby or skill of mine, but will be my main source of income once i graduate. my existing friendships have strengthened, and so have my online ones, ive met so many new and awesome people. seeing everyone's tags, comments and reactions to my art has been amazing, and thank you all for that. i have seen so many amazing artists and writers who inspired me to better myself, and also to focus on what makes me unique.

2023 has been a hell of a year, but thanks in no small part to some of the most amazing people i've had the privilege of knowing, it been a damn good one.

its been tough, coming to realize your physically disabled and having to rewrite your life plan was hard. its been overall up, but there have been some spikes down. im aware, that every year i say i cant get happier, and then i do, i break though another barrier, reach another high.

im not saying that this year, because i know next year will be better, and the year after that, as i have the opportunity to steer my own life, it will improve in ways i cant even think of now.

Thank you, all.

[emeryhall]

prompts: hot, humid, water & sweat

CW: bordering on explicit

Remus Lupin had ceased to be shocked by words. Bodies comprised of crooks and holes and ridges wrapped in skin that stretched and breathed—that could overwhelm him. But words? At 36 and publisher of the gay poetry zine, Assonance, he thought he had read everything. He had printed poems about blond boys in bathhouses, public masturbation, the slick sound the handle of a heavily vaselined whip makes as you work it into your lover’s ass. What he hadn’t read—that is until this morning over breakfast—was a poem about himself. 

His top floor apartment was silent and still. He could hear his bare footsteps on the kitchen’s hardwood floor. The flick of the button on the coffee maker, the drip of coffee hitting coffee, the pop of ready toast. 

He sat at the table and placed his mug on the most recent submission to Assonance, where it left a damp ring. A perfect circle around the poem’s title and dedication: 

Palm in Neon For R.L.

It was not the “R.L.” that caught his attention. R.L. could be any number of people’s initials. No, it was the title. His reaction to it was visceral. He could feel the press of a hand against his stomach. 

Summer in San Francisco is cool 50s, but thinking about that skin against his and it was the very tip of a New York summer, the slow end of August 1971. 

He took a sip of coffee and read: 

What are you thinking?

I am thinking of August on asphalt. I am thinking of fire hydrants split and spilling. The cigarette butt pulled from your lips, a tiny fire that sizzles in the crook of the curbed river streaming to the ready drain.

You could fry an egg on the sidewalk, you said. And I think of a delicate shell cracking against cast iron. Later a pool of viscid liquid. Your stomach hard asphalt, hot iron.

We clung to subway poles, touching sweat to metal, but not each other. Shuddering with the clatter and the seconds suspended in blackness released to the blank eyes of underground animals. Yours on me though, glassy with trust and alcohol. Remarkable that you would come home with me.

We ascend into New York’s silence. The mumble from stoops, glass shattering the air at 2 a.m. no different than the air at 2 p.m. in its murkiness.

The street lamps wear wet halos.

My palm leaves a damp print on the stairwell wall as I kiss you into graffiti under a dying bulb.

In my room, it is too hot to speak of touching so we drag the bare mattress. You backwards, me burdened. Still wordless. Wordless with laughter, laughter at our clumsiness our need our risk our hope. Our corner of the roof and sky.

Your skin a sunset, gold and glazed in pink and purple. I place my palm in neon against the flat of your abdomen. Hot asphalt, hard iron, sperm smeared and hazy in your sweat. It fits perfectly in pink boundaries. My wrist dispersing light.

We should not be here come morning, but we are. Folded into our corner the way you fold against my chest. Laundry flickers dull colors above us. A shirt sleeve lax in the still air. I feel you stir as I stir. The stiff fabric of starched jeans pinned on the line. I hold you motionless. It is too light for this. And yet if we are silent. Wordless. The slight shift of your leg. The sheet barely rustles. And I need nothing more.

What are you thinking?

You asked. Of our future. Is what I did not say.

— S.B. 

The mug slipped in Remus’s hand. He wiped his palms against his pajamas. He could feel the sheen of sweat on his stomach, at the roots of his hair, like his body wanted to relive the words. 

He’d met Sirius Black at a bar in Greenwich Village. Some kids must have unscrewed the outlet of a fire hydrant because water poured down the street. He’d accepted a cigarette and leaned against the brick wall feeling like it was too hot to have even this small blaze near his face. As they walked to the subway, he flicked the butt into the rush of water flowing between the street and sidewalk. 

Everything was there. The subway ride, the kiss in Sirius’s stairwell. The stifling heat of his Upper East Side apartment, so oppressive that they couldn’t bear to have their bodies next to each other, so they’d drunkenly dragged the mattress up a flight of stairs. When they emerged onto the roof, they weren’t alone. Several other mattresses dotted the tarpapered landscape, each with bodies sleeping restlessly. They’d hesitated, but found a far corner tucked behind an outcropping of chimneys. Someone had strung their drying laundry between one of the chimneys and an antenna pole and they lay beneath it. 

He’d come on his stomach from Sirius’s hand wrapped around him, and as he lay there naked and sticky, they’d realized that the building next-door had a neon sign in its window. A pink palm, purple script above it reading Psychic, Know Your Future. From that angle, the sign’s illumination left a glowing palm on Remus’s belly, and Sirius placed his hand within the outline, fitting it perfectly, the base of his palm resting in the pool of come. 

They were naked under a thin sheet on a shared rooftop when they woke the next morning, and they knew they should dress quickly, hurriedly drag the mattress back to Sirius’s bedroom, but instead they’d had sex. Spooning, barely moving, trying not to make a sound. The very stillness of it a pressure and a release. 

“What are you thinking?” Remus asked. 

Sirius said something about the heat. Neither of them mentioned the future. Remus boarded a flight back to San Francisco, never got a phone number, but he left his card behind: Publisher, Assonance. 

* * *

@wolfstarmicrofic

word count: 1000 (exactly!)

I wanted to write a fic about gay poetry zines post-Stonewall (real thing) and New York before AC was common. Then it turned into a poem.