#That brain is also in this old drawing but he looks ugly and also I'm going to redraw him so you all dont get to see that

[st4rstudent]

An old Misty drawing from last year May

[hornkerling]

(The gorgeous art was a commission from leylses, who does not seem to to have an active tumblr any more - if you know where they now live please let me know for proper attribution! )

I have papers to mark, but also the upcoming game has my brain in a vice and I found myself going through my old tags to see where and how I'd left everybody, so I'm bringing back a few of the stories that meant the most to me, inspired by @thievinghippo. I have resisted the urge to re-write this beyond fixing a few of the more egregious fragments and parenthetical asides (damn, I loved a parenthetical, didn't it?). So it is here mostly in all of its old age and earnestness.

Look after each other

Isabela is the love Hawke expects. She is the one shaped to old childhood hopes and the words of all Liadan’s favourite songs, and the world turns to lurching delight and fumbling hope as the two circle each other and stare and glare and smile. Liadan grows wilder and Isabela more centred as they each, in their own way, say: let me in. Let me touch you. Let me love you, at least a little bit. And then just a breath more.  

Isabela draws her. Delights her. Lust tangles up between them, the pirate’s hands at her throat, lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

(“I have you, sweet thing. There you are.”)

***

Fenris is different. They rarely look at each other directly. They are too busy, heads bent over books or maps, her words caught between his teeth as she teaches him the silly memory songs that made words stick in her mind.

(“I’m sorry, Fenris,” she tells him, when they have three months of lessons behind them. She is delighted at his progress. It’s better than hers. Better than anything she’s ever seen. She’ll ruin it.

“I forgot how bad I was at this,” she says. “I never learnt well. Just ask Carver. We were both appallingly stupid at this. I—”

“—You,” he says, looking up from his work, hair sticking up from where his hands have tangled, “Are a better teacher than you think.”

Fenris is always surprised when he smiles, the warmth in his face flickering as he realises it’s there.

Liadan is never tired of it. She is never prepared for the answering tug his smiles always call up in her.

They look at each other sidelong, and one of them always looks away first, but there no pattern.

***

Together, all three fight well. Liadan is used to Isabela’s ruthlessness, has learned to use her magic in arcs that the pirate can exploit with a kick or a cry or twin, shining blades. She has learned to spot rare gaps in Fenris’s guard, and let that same magic be as blunt and brutal as the sword in her friend’s hand.

Force magic is ugly stuff that no one expects from the reedy singer with poor eyesight and freckles up her arms. She uses that surprise and feels Isabela’s pride and appreciation. She loves fighting from the back mostly because it means she can watch the others come back to her, Isabela kicking at bottles and pebbles and Fenris grimacing as lyrium fades back into his skin.

(“I don’t want to hurt you,” she’s said more than once. “If the magic is—”

“—It’s yours.” A shrug.

He does not look at her and Hawke wants to force it. Wants to hunker down and tilt his chin up and see. A part of her knows she could use her height for this, her self, to demand understanding, but when she feels that, she also hears Isabela’s voice in her head, and their oldest and sorest and most familiar fight twists up her guts.

“People aren’t problems, Hawke. Sometimes? Just back. Off.”

She holds back, jaw clenched.)

***

When Leandra dies, when every second breath tastes like bile, and my mother is dead repeats as the bass beneath her heartbeat, they are there. Isabela first, kissing the corner of her mouth, warm and scarf askew and never still. She looks at Liadan in all her tired hopelessness and does not turn away, but her eyes are half pleading, half embarrassed.

“I’m not good with this,” Isabela says, and Liadan doesn’t have the words to say I know or thank you. She just lets her head rest on Isabela’s chest, lets herself shake. Laughs a little at the other woman’s small huff of relief that they’ve gone bodied and wordless in the dark.

Fenris is a small knock and heavy step, and Isabela shifts to make room.

(“Are you any better at saying sorry than I am?”

“I…Is anyone?”)

Hawke lets them talk over her. She lets herself feel warm and hopeless and lost and loved and nothing, while Isabela eases her into her lap and Fenris lets one mercifully un-gauntleted hand rest on her hair.

***

She and Fenris do not want each other. Not the same way. They’ve never quite said it—never tugged at the difference between their easy company and the shiver-hope-want of Isabela’s lips on her throat, Fenris’s hands at Isabela’s hips.

They never say, You are my best friend.  I love you, and I love that you love who I love. Isn’t it gorgeous? Let’s keep being gorgeous. There is no need. Their voices blend, and in time he reads to her, her clumsy teaching turned beautiful as he shares verse and ghost story and Varric’s latest worlds.

Isabela soars over them both, and catches them both in their laughter. 

***

Liadan wonders if she can ever find words all the world’s different sorts of need. 

She watches them together. Delights at the catch in her breath, the little, happy flip inside at the sight of Isabela’s scarred, clever fingers twining with Fenris’s over a table at the Hanged Man.

In songs, Hawke knows, she’d be jealous.

She reaches out. Covers their hands with hers.

There should be new songs.

***

“You don’t even like men,” Carver says, wide-eyed and credulous as his ten-year-old self even as he looms over her in Templar armour. 

“Well observed.” 

“But–”

“–It’s none of your business, little brother.” Liadan smiles at him, rueful and soft. “I know I say that too much, but in this? It’s true.”

Leaving him at the Gallows, her staff a heavy, anxious weight across her back, Liadan worries that she must grow used to the question. 

She wonders if, given time, it’ll be easier or harder to squash the urge to punch people in the face. 

She chuckles. Easier, she hopes. If not, she’ll need to learn better aim. 

***

Liadan is a better sailor than she expects. She’d assumed she’d be terrible. 

(“You always assume that, sweet.” 

“Hush.”)

Grief does not drift away in the small boat’s wake, Kirkwall’s ashes still clinging to her skin, but it feels like it might. Finding balance is beautiful. She loves the creaks and cries and the strange gurgling noises that sneak into her daily thoughts, the music in her head. She loves the loosening of Isabela’s shoulders. Her strong, heavy body gone light in the rigging as she throws familiar words around in desperately strange ways. Tacking and tying and mainsailing and boarding stars or ports. 

Liadan relishes the slow feeling of her world changing, splitting, and making sense. 

***

Fenris’s skin burns and darkens. Her own only burns. They both catch themselves staring at the blisters on each other’s hands, and they exchange stories of stars as Isabela steers them toward Minrathous.

“Did you think you’d go back?” she asks.  

“Not like this,” he says. “It is–I do not know if it–”

“We’ll help,” Liadan says, hating her own earnestness even as Fenris presses a kiss to her cheek, just above the bone.   “You know that, I hope?”

She catches him smiling–more a crinkle about the eyes than anything else. 

“You did always say I’d never need to ask you to hunt slavers.” 

“You’re teasing me.” 

“Yes, Hawke.” Fenris murmurs. There is wonder in it. 

***

Minrathous almost becomes a home. Isabela grumbles–port taxes are brutal, and harder than most to evade. But there is something astonishing in the decaying finery all about them. Liadan’s songs turn learn new stresses that come in groups of six and sevens and full of unexpected tonal fractions. Isabela finds her a stringed instrument that fits across the lap, and Liadan is lost for hours trying to match interval to thought. 

(“I didn’t even steal it, Fenris.” Muttered delight in the corner of a small, dockside room, the sunlight turned thick through bright orange curtains.  

“You sound very proud.”

Liadan looks up as they kiss. She lets them get their breath back before she tells them to hush.) 

***

They are not always together, of course. Isabela is growing in boats and restlessness. A day in the market for Fenris becomes two weeks in Qarinus, Isabela and Liadan squinting in amazement at his bold, sparse handwriting when he lets them know he is following traces of Varania that pricked at him with hope he is not sure he can bear. 

Liadan writes more than songs. Varric’s answers grow thicker and more frequent, paper piling up whenever she has a fixed address, 

(“If I knew what dreaming felt like,” Varric writes, “It might be something like this. The red lyrium’s still here. Still other damn places, and it’s not going away, Hawke. I think the years are turning strange on us. Don’t know what that means.”)

***

Merrill visits. She moves through Minrathous with her energies coiled tight, movements too quick and eyes too large. “It’s lovely to see you all,” she says, while Liadan plays the treasured dulcimer and Fenris avoids her gaze and Isabela, face softer than they’ve seen in years, slips an arm about her waist.

“All of you,” she repeats. “Even you, Fenris.” 

Fenris catches Merrill’s tiny smirk. It distorts in the wine bottle he has brought out for the peculiar table. Merrill holds her glass. It splashes, thick and near-enough-to-blood that he should, he thinks, be appalled. But he’s chuckling, and when he does raise his head to see those ridiculous eyes on his, they’re warm with surprised approval.  

The next day, Merrill asks Isabela a favour. 

“Can you teach me how to spit?” 

“I’m sorry, kitten?” 

“Please,” Merrill says. “Pirates are good at that sort of thing, aren’t they?”

Isabela laughs and complies, Liadan watching with wide eyes at the serious discussions of aim and phlegm and head-tilt. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“You love me, Hawke.” 

“Always true.” 

“You’re so sweet,” Merrill says, and Isabela’s laugh turns from raucous to soft. 

“You are,” Merrill says. “Also, you’re staring a little.” 

“I’ve missed you, kitten,” Isabela says. 

Liadan watches them. Catches the faint flush growing on Merrill’s face. Knows that swallow of Isabela’s. The small shifts of muscle that say the other woman is trying very hard, just this once, not to touch. 

She stands, walking between them to kiss the corner of Merrill’s mouth, smiling as the elf turns her head and lets it slip.

“That’s two of us, you know,” Liadan says. She feels bold and open and scalded as her bravery turns into a blush. “If you like.” 

“Sometimes,” Isabela mumbles as Fenris sighs with affectionate exasperation and picks up a book, shaking his head at them, “I really like my life.” 

***

Fenris catches Merrill later, small body tense as she stands at the base of the grand imperial library, looking up at the columns and statues of magisters-past. 

He wants to pull her back. The urge surprises him, sharp and worried as the pricking on his skin from too many eyes in this public place, the skin too tight over his cheeks at his wrists. 

He stares as she spits at the feet an archon. She watches her efforts drip down one enormous, silverite boot, and then turns away. 

He catches up to her. They are silent as the crowd opens and swallows them, his shadow careful over hers as she wipes the back of her mouth with a shaking hand.   

“I’m not as sweet as they think,” she says, after a while. 

“I know.” 

“I think you do,” Merrill’s smile is lopsided. “I’m glad I came, of course. It’s been so good to see everyone; it would have been even without–” her blush flares up. Fenris watches as the blood seems to sink back into her skin, markings stark. 

“Even without all of that,” she says. “But Tevinter. I hadn’t thought. Not really. Seeing all this knowledge. All this old power, and most of it’s nearly dead, but my people died first. For that mural, maybe. Or that statue. It’s all–”

“–Merrill–”

“–pointless.” 

She stops to breathe, glaring at the city-shadows, and Fenris isn’t sure who is more surprised when he pulls her into a rough embrace. 

“I do not understand,” he says. “Not fully. But nothing you do is pointless, and there are many reasons for rage.” 

Merrill looks at him. He does not flinch when she cups his cheek. They are of a height, her eyes dark and locked with his. 

It breaks when she smiles. Her eyes close. He catches small, bright teeth and a half-laughed breath. 

“You love them very much, don’t you?” 

Fenris squirms, 

“Yes.” 

“Good,” Merrill says, stepping back. Her hair has grown in the years since Kirkwall. “You’re all very nice together.” 

***

“I have to go back,” Hawke says, in the end.

The rift light tinges everything. Their skin and their teeth; the street and the oily water of the port. Even Isabela’s jewellery picks up a layer of corpse green, and Fenris tastes magic at the back of his throat. 

“Yes,” Isabela says. 

“No,” says Fenris. 

They glare at each other, and Liadan holds back a sob. 

“It’s her choice, sweet thing,” Isabela says, tugging gently on Fenris’s hair. “She’s a big girl.”

“Varric needs my help,” she says. “And if it is–”

“I cut off the magister’s head,” Fenris says. “I pulled out his heart and cut off his head. We all checked–”

“–Twice,“ Isabela sighs. 

“And if Corypheus is still alive,” Liadan says, “Then I’m the one who’s fought him. Feels only right to do it again.” 

“You,” Fenris mutters, words thick, “Are a fool about this.”  

Liadan sighs. “Please,” she says. “Look after each other.” 

“No,” Isabela says. 

“Yes,” says Fenris.

The three hold hands as they look toward the end of the world. 

[charlie-ver]

anyway since i am here. hi. i'm redoing perseus' scar sheet because old one is so ugly lol (i will not show it, you can dig for it. pointing at u)

he will also have one new scar, he may be a blood magician but there are circumstances under which he can't prevent scarring/can't actually heal it via magic entirely but can only help to speed up the process. (if you desire the Yaps.... you know what to do <: )

and yes i flip left/right because it's easier for my brain to process what's what when the way you're looking at my art is like, you are the viewer in the situation. i think it's the superior way to draw actually. just makes more sense

[necros-writing-stuff]

It's been a really long time since I've been here, life has just been too busy and tiring. I haven't even been able to draw I'm so sorry. Can I ask for two?

PC with a flu or high fever with Eden and Trauma induced Eden insisting on going out to work or sell products to earn money to pay Bailey given that they're already permitted by Eden to go back to town every now and then and that Eden didn't directly buy PC from Bailey. Take your time imma just be here sick in bed.

Hey! So sorry this took so long! I hope you're doing much better now. And don't worry about not having done art! We all work at our own paces, don't push yourself to create when you don't have the will to.

I think I've already covered PC with a sickness, and how Eden is a stern but attentive caretaker. We can see this when there's pass out events at the cabin. They bring you in, put you to bed. After the pred/prey scene they even get you water. So Eden would likely work as normal, but come in to check on you every so often. Get you a drink or a snack. If you're well enough, you can do small indoor chores. If not, sleep as much as is needed.

As for traumatised Eden at the market? Mmmm that good. That's a yummy one. Note: when I say that it's often about horrible things, isn't it? Double note: Lynx would be Axe body spray to the 'Muricans.

Oh - warning for mentions of past non-con btw.

There's too much noise. It burrows into his brain, denying any attempts to drown out the calls of purveyors of goods around him. Calling out their produce, prices, how long they'd be there.

There's a baby crying. Wailing as it's father talks on the phone and half-asses shushing it by waving a toy in its face while he isn't even looking at the babe.

There's so many smells he swears they're causing him a headache. Food. Sweat. Some abhorrent chemical smell as a group of teenage boys pass. He remembers Lynx. Remembers the locker rooms at school.

There's eyes everywhere. Blue, green, brown. He thought he saw red at one point. No- no he definitely did. There's a group of goths wandering around. Probably one of them with contact lenses. Eden could swear he feels at least one pair of eyes on him each and every second.

Scant few customers come to his stall. Its mostly older patrons: elderly craftspeople who still practise their trades as the youth buy from companies; aspiring chefs excited to grill up some real game; this one old man who always shows up for the dried back-strap. Eden doesn't remember his name, but the man swears by the stuff. Says Eden comes with the best stock and those other hunters bring bare scraps. Not a surprise, he's seen the incompetence of others who come through the forest.

He swears he can hear laughter amongst the throngs of people. Swears that it must be directed at him. His ugly face. His huge body. His clothing, old and patched. But he has to stay. Has to do it for you. To keep you safe and out of Bailey's money machine.

He wished you were here. Wished you'd come bounding up to him with that smile of yours and drag him home. But you're also at work, coralling dogs at the pound for spare change to contribute to Eden's payments to Bailey. Apparently the mutts listen now that you smell like him. Funny thing, how he affects animals. Even dumbass chickens hate him. He'd considered getting some once, but they'd get so stressed around him they wouldn't be able to lay any eggs. Oh, and foxes could take them.

Best to stay there, in those inconsequential memories of the past. It's hard to when he sees a face that surges horrid memories to the front instead. The man looked to be about 70 by this point, wobbling around with a cane. He'd already been grey when they'd met.

"Got any boar meat, lad?" He wheezed, bug-like eyes pooring over the table. His voice was weaker than it had been. There's no flicker of recognition in the freaky eyes.

"A few cuts. Belly or back? I've got hooves, too." Eden's voice doesn't break. Doesn't show his rising panic.

A claw-like hand reaches out to where Eden directed his attention. A shiver goes down the hunter's spine. He remembers those hands. How clammy and cold they'd been. How... insistent and encompassing.

"Aye, this one's a good heavy steak. How much?"

Eden's eyes didn't leave the old man's face. "Freshest cut, got the beast last night. £5."

The old man licks his lips as he pries his wallet free, the appendage dried, cracked and pale. Just like the rest of him. He'd had a tan back then. A terrible, fake one. Fucker had been orange.

Teens ran past once more, barely missing the old man as they screamed. The crypt-bound bag of bones scoffed, disgust apparent. But his eyes linger too long on one of the older boys, with longer dark hair and a skinny frame, just about old enough to start drinking Eden thinks.

Attention soon returned to the hunter, the smile back. Oh look, he'd kept half of his teeth. Impressive for someone his age. They were rotted, though. More so than they had been when he'd visited the orphanage. Probably time for dentures. Eden could still remember the smell of his breath.

"£5, a good price for a good steak. My wife will fry this up well." He's laughing. Eden grants him a polite smile as he wraps up the meat and hands it over.

He tracks the old man as he leaves, watching as his thumb strokes over the paper bill in his hand. He doesn't take a deep breath until he knows he's gone. He can't take a deep breath until he knows, for sure, that he's gone.

£2.50 was what he'd payed for Eden back then.

[see-arcane]

I think the thing that bothers me more than Dracula media killing off/sidelining Harker is the "Since he's so bland in canon, let's make him a cheater to give him some spice. (And because we can't think of other ways to create drama between couples.)" Like. You might be projecting here my dudes, but this man is physically incapable of cheating.

And if you want to make him flawed, he actually has flaws in canon, go focus on those instead of inventing OOC ones like being a cheater. (Even if it's a sequel and they've learned their lesson to always communicate, there are other flaws that aren't infidelity. Like maybe his xenophobia toward eastern Europeans won't affect his relationship, but his recklessness and single-mindedness could.) (Also they could have conflicts that have little to do with personal flaws or sex, damn!)

See, all of this is making the assumption that these people are actually reading and comprehending the material. Or reading it at all, rather than doing a Wiki skim of Francis' Gary Oldman fanfic film.

But yeah, highlighting his actual flaws as a character would be an interesting change!*

*I have said it 1000 times, but I'll say it again: Jonathan and Mina's clinging to physiognomy and/or outright xenophobia feels so SO ripe for examination as two people in an Othered demographic hiding behind the expected norms (putting down other Othered groups) as a defense mechanism. They both came up poor, Mina's an Irish immigrant and orphaned girl, and Jonathan's quick leap to a kukri as his weapon easily drops a hint of potential Very Not-Anglo heritage.

My main theory for why Jonathan specifically clings to physiognomy and selective ugly attitudes to Dracula's choice of cohorts (leaving aside the direct Bram influence of him only having his info secondhand from biased guides) is that, growing up, Jonathan maybe got treated to some fun racial remarks from some prick classmates. But, being that he's Jonathan, he still draws friends like flies--said friends coming to his defense with the 'science' of physiognomy. They point out that, sure, he's not white, but just look at his face. He's got good bones.

Read: He was attractive enough by everyone's standards that he 'passed' the bullshit pseudoscience test. And Jonathan clung to that as one of few small shoddy shields he had as a lower class, also parent-less (or at least fatherless) boy trying to claw up the rickety social ladder. Same goes for Mina, whose whole character--from the New Woman put-downs to her own unfortunate belief in Lombroso--screams Dutiful Orphan Who Must Be Good and Useful and Not Like [INSERT ICKY BAD GROUP HERE].

It would make sense for them both. It wouldn't be an excuse, but it would be a reason. And, in light of all the very sudden, very harsh, very world-shaking thresholds they were forced to cross in the wake of Dracula's mess, I'm betting this is a good foundation for both Harkers to start growing past these old biases.

There's definitely a wide open door to start with--learning new languages, cultures, and beliefs from the so-called 'Old World.' Because hey, those superstitions have proven themselves pretty fucking real and it was only by the locals' warning, aid, and charity that Jonathan made it out unbitten and with his mind intact. And it was their exact same aids that Van Helsing employed, bar the wafer crumbs.

There is SO MUCH POTENTIAL here for the Harkers--and, we can assume, the Suitors and Benignly Misogynistic 'Hooray for Man's Brain' Van Helsing--to evolve under the right adaptation or sequel.

But I'm not holding my breath.

[measuringbliss]

Spider-Man Read-Through 022: The Master Plan of the Molten Man... and Dracula is also there (ASM 132-133, GSSM 1)

MASTERPOST

In this duo, we see an old friend... or two. And then, we meet a vampire. OoOoOh~!

I really enjoy the Molten Man's new design! Gorgeous cover.

It may be January in the Marvel-verse, but we're in May 74, publication-wise!

Liz is back! Hasn't been seen since issue 30, which explains why I keep mistaking Betty and her.

I don't know why, but I remembered this specific (and very ugly) maid. Poor lady.

Anyway, Raxton is hot, there I said it, we can get on.

When I first saw those panels, I thought it was exactly like how Romita would draw Liz... then I checked the credits again... and it's him! His soapy style is gorgeous as ever. Peter says she never got on with MJ, but given that MJ appeared for the first real time in #42... I don't know what he's on. The art of the retcon!

Ned, who's investigating the maid's intel on Raxton, almost dies as Raxton (actually the Molten Man) makes his room explode. I like that Ned (and the rest of the cast) are more involved! I miss them.

The Molten Man has apparently not been seen since #35, which checks out. It's the occasion for the artists to put gold, which is a shade we don't see so much.

Look, is this a safe space? Can I say what's on my mind?

The feet are really nice. I'm not particularly into feet (I know, TMI) but I'm really impressed by how it looks good. And the rest of Raxton's body is obviously quite well-done too. I'm not saying that Spider-Man comics made me gay, but they sure aren't beating the allegations.

Ned is very badly aged, but I like the damsel in distress look.

Raxton's radiation has a bad influence on Peter's metabolism, and he might very well die by the next issue...

Oh, who are we kidding?

In the readers' letters, it seems like Gwen's death has now mostly been forgiven, and someone is praising MJ--and she deserves it!

Even men want to see more of Peter! I'm afraid the situation isn't exactly adapted, however.

As a matter of fact, Spidey has already planned to party in a sauna with another man. Better luck next time!

(I love those smoke effects.)

Liz reveals that Raxton is her brother, which I completely forgot about.

We rarely see that kind of comedy, hahaha.

So. Um. It's a classic story of Spidey kind of being a jerk. Um. So Liz's brother is dead. For now. Maybe. Oof.

In the comments, there's also people talking about Russia's attack on Ukraine. Gerry Conway's run is really provocative, huh! I'm kind of loving it. His shaking of the status quo, not the attack.

I wonder if we'll get to see Liz's reaction :(

I'll do Giant-Size 1 later, it's currently more than 3 am. Hey, do you know what we'll get next time? A big batch... and Harry's big moment as, you know, the, the...!

Oh, you'll just have to wait!

______________________________________________________________

And here's the late addendum of Giant-Size Spider-Man #1!

I'm into that, actually!

So May's dying again (isn't she always?) and Peter needs to get her a vaccine. Ross Andru thus entertains us with a brilliant perspective shot.

Their homoeroticism never fails. Reading the summary of Marvel Team-Up 23 actually was a treat, because I finally got the answer to a years-old question of mine: did Iceman really rob a bank in the first few pages of this issue?

No, he didn't, folks!

Yes, you're getting a ton of screenshots for this part, since I know there's no more issue in this batch after this one.

Anyway, Dracula... Could you please breed me?

To me, Peter and Dracula crossing paths was like, an interplanetary event. It gave me chills. In fact, it still does and I think I should write Peter/Dracula smut now so thank you to the whole team, you've made a mess out of my brain, ARE YOU HAPPY?!? (It is 3 am.)

At least three factions are out there to find Maxfield, either to kill him (Dracula), use him for bartering (the Whisperer and Simian), and naturally Peter just wants to heal his aunt.

I remember that exact cosplay!!!! Funny what the brain remembers and doesn't. Sir, if you thirst so much, maybe I could come to your aide. You just need to ask. Okay, that's actually optional.

The Whisperer's men have a run in with Dracula and think he's Maxfield, which totally offends Dracula. As revenge, he decides to homosexualize his assailants.

Muahahaha.

The writing team then attempts to gaslight me into thinking Dracula isn't hot as fuck.

They're not doing a good job, I can tell you.

A woman is attacked by Dracula, Peter hears her, alerts the captain, who makes Dr. Maxfield come... and Simian follows them.

The fake Hawkgirl attacks one of them and is knocked unconscious. They escape with the man, Peter escapes too...

I'm all giddy!!!!!! Don't know why, but I love that "oh it's not the end yet... or rather, at all! I'm loving this romp. It's a complete joy.

In a great feat of misdirection, Simian and his men find Spider-Man... but actually, he's just a rando in a costume! That's funny and foreshadowed (given that everyone's in a costume anyway). And if I remember, this isn't the only misdirection...

The guy on the right is a fun one.

Meanwhile, Dracula is just as uncomfortable watching Babylon's first 10 minutes as I was. (It's a great movie, go watch it.)

Great mise-en-scène! The Whisperer has trapped the guy, but a bat follows... and hits Simian with its gay ray. Hurray!

Gosh, Dracula is such a girlboss. "I have been harassed--attacked--INSULTED..." Iconic.

Dracula eventually escapes, convinced that he just threw Maxfield overboard... but Spidey caught fake Robin Hood!

And thus, the biggest twist arises!

What a girlboss too.

And that's how it ends. A stellar issue! Loved it.

[mahiiimahiiii]

Could I get a matchup?

I'm a 5ft tall straight woman with freckles (like a lot) (I'm pale as heck and I don't tan I just burn and then get freckles) , green eyes, medium length shaggy dyed black hair with bangs (naturally brown). Short and chubby with an hourglass figure.

I am a Sagittarius (tho I don't really belive in that sort of stuff) and have a mediator personality on the Briggs scale.

I love to bake, sew, crochet, draw, etc... Basically anything where I get to create something. I love seeing an idea come to life. I'm constantly making things and I like to fidget with anything I get my hands on (meaning I have a habit of breaking stuff) (often)

Baking and cooking in particular because I like to give things to people and it's a lot less weird to randomly gift cookies or a meal instead of a plushie.

I also keep freshwater aquariums and love the process of building tanks and decorating them. I especially love shrimp because they are adorable. And plecos.... I love my babys

I also keep insects and a gecko. I love them all. I make little hats for my gecko because he tolerates me too much..

Can I include pictures.... I'm including pictures

The first one is my favorite ugly boy, Groot. Second is Carlos who hates my face. Leo is the gecko, he is precious. Domino is the Betta. And ki-ki is my one eyed old woman.

I constantly crave affection (but will never admit to that) I really love cuddling, and am definitely touch starved but anyone who knows that has figured it out themselves. Because for some reason my brain thinks I don't deserve any of it. I really want to just be held one day. big strong man.... Or just a man really

Thanks ahead of time... Sorry if this is too long.

hello!!! i love your menagerie, please give your cat a kiss on her head please. plecos are adorable i do love their mustaches. i also love your geckos hat, he is looking rather dashing!

for you it feels slightly obvious that Halsin would be the best choice. (don't think i didn't see that last part /lh)

your menagerie already speaks for itself! he would most certainly be at home in that environment!

the scent that i'm getting is jasmine and monoi oil, there's a song called "forever" by the little dippers, and that's the vibe i'm getting. very sweet and dreamy!

Halsin is a very affectionate guy, he would all but melt away all needs for any other touch as well. (get onto hugging people!! it helps manage stress!!!)

for food i feel like a nice salmon with lemon and herbs du provance. salty, refreshing, and a yummy spring and summer meal. (if this makes sense my brain makes weird connectionsss)

i think for y'all it would be a craft date, this could mean going to a fabric or wool store. or sitting in a shopping cart in a home depot while he looks for silly home renovation things to do.

i feel like it could also be a lot of parallel play with soft music, doing your own thing together.

overall this sounds really cozy.

hope you enjoyed!

[aidansplaguewind]

Hey is everything ok you haven’t been active much lately?

Awww, I really do appreciate your concern. REALLY REALLY. I've been here for like 12 years. I've been an Aidan blog for 9 of those years. Rarely ever did anyone check up on me when I went MIA.

I mean, it didn't really bother me too much, but it's still nice to know someone is paying attention.

I'm okay though, anon. I had a really busy weekend. I had to do my youngest son's birthday party. (He's 11 now). And my 17-year-old, Aiden, was in Daytona at his very first ever music festival, first concert ever too. So half of my brain was there with him. It's the first time he's ever been that far away from me for that long (four days), without being with another family member.

When I got some time to rest I did make some more GIFS. You're Ugly Too. I look through all of my movies and interviews when I want to GIF and just GIF whatever seems to draw my attention in the moment. Eventually I want to have every single frame, of every single thing he's been in, GIFed.

Also, my inbox is so full it's overwhelming me. In all my years on Tumblr my inbox has never been as full as it is now. I have about forty-some inbox. All but maybe one or two are about Petyr. I'm picking and choosing which ones to answer because many of them have already been discussed before. So, if anyone wants to see them just search "anon" on my blog, maybe "Petyr Baelish". I try to tag most of them as anon but sometimes I'm in a hurry and I don't.

Okay, as usual this is getting too long. I'm too fucking wordy.

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Imaginary Friend : Bonus Scene - Part 2

Yennefer suggested that they take Potoo Head Geralt on a trip into town. She was happy when Jaskier excitedly agreed, glad that he was finally getting comfortable with leaving the house again.

"You-you're coming too, right, Geralt?" he asked, looking at Geralt. He started nervously fidgeting with that one corner of his blanket that he had wrapped around his shoulders. Geralt could hear his heartbeat speed up, and smelled the hint of anxiety.

"I'm coming," he assured him.

"That's what she said!" Jaskier laughed.

Geralt and Jaskier snickered, Yennefer sighed in mild annoyance, and Potoo Head Geralt stood there looking confused.

They agreed upon the story that Potoo Head Geralt was a Witcher friend of theirs who had been cursed while working a contract and was staying with them while Yennefer looked into how to break it. If anyone asked, his name was Jacek of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt had rolled his eyes. He already had a 'Dandelion' and now he had a 'Hyacinth'. If this kept up, he was going to end up with a bouquet of friends.

He didn't think the name fit Potoo Head Geralt at all, but Yen and Jaskier thought they were being clever, so Geralt just went with it. It wasn't worth an argument over.

Potoo Head Geralt stuck close to Jaskier, who used Yennefer's mental link to keep up a running commentary with 'Jacek', answering his questions and reassuring him if he was feeling apprehensive. Jaskier kept close to Geralt, like he had been doing anytime he went out. He still had bad moments, and needed his Emotional Support Witcher, but he could also tell that Geralt was feeling a little bit jealous, and a little useless.

For being such a Big Bad Witcher who "Needed no one", he sure did need a lot of attention.

Yennefer mentally shook her head in amusement as she watched them. She noted that Geralt was wearing his ratty Emotional Support Hoodie even though he had his Emotional Support Bard with him. She knew from the way he had pulled the hood up, that he was feeling very uncomfortable from all the attention Potoo Head Geralt was drawing to their little group.

Most people could tell that Geralt was a Witcher, and that Potoo Head Geralt was Witcher-shaped, so they avoided them. While most people didn't hate Witchers like they used to, they were still nervous around them and avoided them when they could.

Jaskier purposefully tried to make Geralt jealous after a man at the grocery store had (after watching Potoo Head Geralt go 'mwawp' everytime the scanner beeped when someone scanned an item) asked if the curse had affected more than just their friend's appearance, and Geralt had shrugged and muttered "Bird head, bird brain."

Now Jaskier was leading his dream creature around like a small child, handing him things he expressed interest in, and explaining what it was.

In retaliation, Geralt started paying more attention to Yennefer.

Then they started trying to put things in the trolley that were not on their shopping list. It escalated until Yennefer saw them both running towards her with arm loads of non-list items. She'd frowned and said in her best Mom Voice," PUT THAT SH*T BACK!"

All around the store, children (and several husbands) had rushed to comply.

They decided it would be best if they avoided taking Potoo Head Geralt on long errands, or to places with lots of people. There were plenty of hole-in-the-wall places in Oxunfurt, and Jaskier had a soft spot for those kinds of places. They were small and cozy, quiet, and they reminded him of his University days.

The park had been fun. Potoo Head Geralt had enjoyed the swings, and Jaskier and Geralt had only aquired minor scrapes and bruises from getting thrown off the old-school merry-go-round.

When Geralt had said he was going to spin it 'super fast', he'd f***ing meant it. Yennefer had ugly laughed from the swings and yelled 'Dumba**!" when Geralt had gotten it spinning, jumped on, and almost immediately flown off. He'd bounced, then skidded across the grass on his face in the classic 'scorpion pose'. He'd gotten up with a scraped elbow and a scrape right in the middle of his forehead.

Jaskier had started laughing the second Geralt had gotten thrown off and followed seconds later, hitting the ground and ragdolling arcross the grass, then laying still. Potoo Head Geralt had run over immediately, thinking he was dead because he wasn't moving. Jaskier had sat up seconds later, gripped his lower leg dramatically, and squeaked, "Ow, my knEEEEEE!"

The Voice Crack worked on Potoo Head Geralt just as well as it worked on Yennefer and Geralt. The potoo-headed creature grabbed Jaskier, eyes bulging in panic, and started 'mwwaaawwp' ing like a car alarm. It had taken them several long minutes to convince him that Jaskier was fine.

The 'dumba**' band-aids had been handed out and they had gone home. Geralt was finally starting to kind of warm up to the creature. It was kind of fun watching him experience things in their world.

But he was also struggling to fit in. Geralt could see it. The thing was overwhelmed with how this world worked. He was not made to live here, among people who barely tolerated Witchers. He wasn't used to being stared at either. Back in the dream world, weird creatures were completely normal. They were far from the weirdest things to exist, especially in Jaskier's dreams.

The day finally came where Jaskeir had to make The Decision. Geralt had driven them to a little curry shop tucked back in an out of the way place. It was one of those little shops that was all but hidden from view, and you had to walk down the gap between two buildings to get to it. The path was narrow, but it opened up into an almost fae little courtyard with string lights and little tables, moss between the cobbles, and ivy on the walls. And the food was amazing.

Jaskier and Yennefer were watching Potoo Head Geralt wolf down his curry, while Geralt took pictures and vidoes. The couple on the other side of the outdoor area watched in mild amusement.

Two young men had come in and started causing trouble for the staff, harassing the young women behind the counter, and complaining about there being Witchers present. Geralt had ignored them. Jaskier had started getting that look in his eye, so Geralt had kicked him under the table, and Yennefer had shoved a spoonful of curry into his mouth with a casual "Eat your curry, darling."

Things went to sh*t when the two men decided to come over to their table and start bothering them. Geralt had slowly stood up, intending to leave so as not to cause anymore disruption, when one of the men swung a chair at him.

Potoo Head Geralt had gone into Witcher Mode. Jaskier had been a mess afterward. The event had triggered flashbacks, and when the police arrived and wanted to take Potoo Head Geralt, he'd had a panic attack and Geralt had to take him off to a quiet corner to calm down.

Yennefer had quickly explained that 'Jacek' wasn't a monster, he was just cursed, and she was working on it.

The witnesses had vouched for their innocence, and the staff had showed the police the video of the man attacking Geralt, and Jacek defending him.

They had returned home, and after a brief discussion, they had all agreed that it would be best for Potoo Head Geralt to go home. It just wasn't safe for him here. Someone, sooner or later, would come after him.

Yennefer started crafting a spell to return him to the dream world. She took her time, wanting to give Jaskier a little more time with his friend before he had to say goodbye.

When the spell was ready, they gathered in the living room. Jaskier had hugged Potoo Head Geralt, trying not to completely break down. It had been painful to watch. Geralt had put a supportive hand on his back, rubbing slow circles and letting him take his time with his farewells.

Once they were finally ready, Yennefer cast the spell.

And nothing happened.

She made a slight adjustment to the spell, and tried again.

And again.

Then one more time.

"Er...Yen?"

"Mwaawwwp?"

"Hm."

"Well, f**k..."

[browzerhistory]

tips for beginning artists from someone who's been drawing since he could first pick up a crayon:

1. anything worth doing is worth doing poorly

scared the drawing you want to make will turn out ugly? nervous you won't do the angle/character/lighting/etc justice? do it anyway. do it scared. do it weird, do it anatomically incorrect, do it uncolored, but whatever you do, draw that thing. it's better to get the idea out on paper/canvas/etc than to leave it in your brain to eventually fade away. if you still really love the concept, you can come back to it later with better skills, and if you end up disliking it, well, now that you've drawn it you don't have to ever again!

2. get a little silly with it

experiment with your art. go to a color palette generator and make something with the first thing you get. make ocs with complicated designs and weird backstories. change things about your style just to see how they look. the more things you try out, the more things you'll find out you like (or dislike), and your art will start to really feel like yours. i'm not sure if the Youth of Today get as hung up over not having an art style as i used to, but if you do, there's only one way to get it: fuck around and find out.

3. always cheat

listen. there are many people who will tell you that tracing a reference or color picking from a photo or whatever is cheating. those people are lying to you. obviously there are limits (like don't trace/recolor art and post it without credit), but the vast majority of the time, tracing and taking inspiration from other people's art is how you get better.

(one way to stop yourself from plateauing is to trace a reference, then try drawing it by hand. you can also try breaking down a pose into basic shapes/lines; if this seems confusing, just pretend you're making hitboxes for it video game style.)

4. take a goddamn break

if drawing is starting to feel more like a chore than a hobby, or if you feel like you've run out of good ideas, stop for a couple days. pursue another hobby, eat good food, observe local flora and fauna. even if you love drawing with all your heart and think you'll never get enough of it, your brain needs a refresher every now and then to come up with new cool stuff to draw. trying to push past burnout will most likely just ruin the fun of it for you.

5. make a mary sue oc immediately

there's way too much hate on mary sue characters, especially when so many stories introduce protagonists by going "what if there was a guy. and he was the Specialest Guy Ever." having a character who's sexy and smart and powerful is not only fun, but good for the soul, and nobody gets hurt when you make one. plus, it's hard to overstate how good it is to have a character you love to draw in lots of different outfits, poses, and situations.

6. your art is good because you made it

now this one will probably be controversial, since a lot of artist memes are about feeling self conscious about or straight-up hating your own art. but you've gotta find pride in what you make. you've gotta look at your drawings and say, "this fucks actually and i did an amazing job." for me, even if i don't like how a drawing turned out, i try to find at least one thing i really like about it, like the shading or colors or emotion. making self-deprecating jokes stops being ironic the more you do it, and the same applies to jokingly tearing your own art apart.

7. keep your old art

a very good poster once said that throwing away/deleting your old art is like walking up a staircase and smashing every stair behind you. even if you're very high up, you won't see it because it looks like you're just on the first step.

personally, i have sketchbooks going back to early 2018, when i first started regularly using them, and i keep some of my first ever digital pieces in an archive on my tablet, but i get that that sort of record keeping isn't possible for a lot of people. the gist of this advice is just to have some reminder of where you've been, so you can look forward to where you're going.

8. make furry characters

beyond the obvious (you're probably a furry and it's nice to be able to draw your fursona), doing furry art is also a great way to find community in art. whether you do commissions, comics, or just draw yourself for fun, furry art is a wonderful method of self-expression that has the added bonus of being basically limitless. my main fursona is a bug, my secondary one is a gastropod. follow your dreams.

there may be more i add to this list later, but these are the main ones i can come up with. obligatory disclaimer that i'm just one guy with one experience; this advice might not work for everyone; etc etc. i've just tried to base this off of what i wish i knew when i started getting into art seriously.

[thejellybeanboys]

You. Explanation. On. What. U. Are. Now! Also I'm hungry for candy now.

Luis: “Oh yeah right we have to like properly introduce ourselves, Hoagie @ the rest of everyone in here so we get introductions started!”

Hoagie: “Got it! @everyonejellybeanboys Luis wants intros.”

(Codeyy, Dragongurl34, BennyB, Music_sniffer logs in) (the whole gang is now online)

Luis: “cool.cool. we are all here now. I'll start. I already introduced my self but I guess to give an example for the others, I'm 13. He/him, uh I draw and code, actually mostly I hack and draw but whatever. I'm like the best gamer to exist, no competition f*ck you. I guess the most notable thing and what I can't prevent from you all finding out is that my dad is Tobey McCallister.”

Hoagie: “Hoagie the youngest sandwich making guy--yes that's my full name. Uh I cook/bake! Making pastries, dinners, creative food requests, and of course sandwichs for the internet! Want to eventually get multiple platforms for my cooking videos. I'm 13, he/him, and my uncle is Chuck the evil sandwich making guy!”

Jeremy: “Jeremy Hevaer or JJerm321 if you know me from streaming already. I'm 15, go by he/him/they pronouns, Uh I actually have a channel already where I mostly do improve or game...is it successful? No not really. My idol is the ever great doctor two-brains! He really inspired me, well kinda. I actually cosplay as him regular in most things, which has kinda left people thinking that I am him somehow. Unfortunately no, as much as I would love to be, I never met him yet but one day I'll will 🥰 ”

Mason: “....My name is Mason! I like posting vids about oddly satisfying stuff, making stuff about it. I also just do things like pour lava on glass cause it's cool...uh hydraulically pressing my toys cause it's cool... Heating up my knives and tools cause it's cool... Uh yeah! My pops the Butcher! He's like known for the whole meat stuff. I don't eat meat but pops says I'm still a good griller so he won't disown me yet. He/ham, I'm 14 and yeah.”

Codey: “Oh good you didn't immediately f#ck up the blog I had to create for you. Well let's get this over with. Codey here. She/her, 16. I'm a software developer and I can code the shit out of anything my autism be dammed. I'm mostly just behind the scenes doing all i can to keep this whole thing running, you know typical stuff of the real beautiful intelligent computer woman doing the work while the only slightly charismatic yet incredibly ugly looking guys get all the credit.”

Luis: “ Thank you for perfectly explaining why I like hanging out with you ❤️/pos”

Cecil: “¡AH! ITS HERE NOW AND AN ASK⭐‼️ Oh okay introductions!! I'm a level 24 half dragon, 11 dexterity, 14 charisma-- jejeje okay okay kidding, I promised Luis I wouldnt describ myself or make too many DND jokes kekeke. Cecilia Vázquez Montes at youre service! I'm 15 and a she/her now, I attend an all girls school so Im not online all the time. As you could see I mostly do DND and roleplaying gaming stuff. I also love love making clothes and cosplay✨! I just moved from Puerto Rico recently and I just started learning Ingles so aplogies if I spell or say something little bit wrong, Codey helps in trying autocorrect stuff for me.”

Otty: “🌸🌸❤️❤️🐇🐇💞 Hello everyone! So good to be here :)) My full name is Otty Monnie Smalls, my family is known to be pretty wealthy and be all boring business. Um the most infamous person I'm related to is my older cousin Big or well he tells me to call him Mr. Big, but my dad calls him Shelly? Idk its complicated. I'm 12 years-old, he/him, and my favorite thing ever is to make my friends happy! Which is why I'm here because they told me I could be here if I give them money. A lot of people say I'm cute but the real cute thing ever is my stuffed bunny Mr. Wabbit! He's all pink and fluffyyy!”💖💖💞

Leroy: “Don't know how I'll complete with that but schyeah. Sup dudes my name is Leroy Vázquez He/They, 13, yeah Cecil over there is like my half sister but we don't gotta get into that...Uh I wanna be a DJ, eventually get signed on for something. I'm kinda sensitive to outside noises so I regularly wear these headphones I stole from Luis's dad. Oh yeah Luis is my main man! My top bro. Besties for life. My passion is music i make it, if you think my tunes sound like a printer going through a meat grinder you just don't get it.”

Wil-Liam: “Name is Wil-Liam. I'm pretty sure I'm 13. Uh. I think I'm a he/him. Oh yeah I just checked I am. Uh. Definitely sooo human bro......... All you gotta know about me is that I'm definitely a better gamer than Luis.”

Luis: “I still have no idea how you got here, I didn't even invite you!”

[separatist-apologist]

I know this isn’t your usual thing but did you like acosf? Why or why not? I love Nesta and was disappointed with it!

It has been SO LONG since I've ranted about ACOSF. Can you believe there was a time when like, I was knee-deep in Neris and was really critical of the IC? It feels like forever ago.

Did I like ACOSF? Brain off, yes, I liked it a lot. It's very much an SJM novel in which centuries old men get to tell near-teenage women what they do/don't need, put them in danger as life lessons, and any bad behavior on said man's part is erased by the fandom in favor of vilifying the woman in question. And before someone tries to come for me, this happens with literally ALL the ACOTAR woman LI's (so save your breath).

Did I like ACOSF? Brain on, no. Cassian is the picture of petulant asshole unable to reign himself in for 5 minutes. Nesta is so successful in pushing the buttons of the general to the night courts armies that you have to wonder how he even got the job?

The plot is thin and falls apart the moment you examine it. Cassian is GENERAL to the NIGHT COURT. And Rhys asks Cassian why he doesn't want more. Why SHOULD he? Does Rhys want more than being High Lord? Does Azriel want more than being spymaster? Cassian holds the highest position for his profession, why should he have to play courtier, too? It's necessary to move the plot forward, since Nesta is effectively trapped in the house of wind, but it bothered me from the jump. Cassian is supposed to be the most powerful warrior, and the idea that somehow its under vauled to...what? Arguing with Eris? Hilarious.

I also dislike a lot of the romance beats in the book. I don't care about the sex/sex plot line, but Cassian spends a lot of time seemingly breaking Nesta down when he internally is aware that she is punishing herself for things that are not her fault. Like he'll think that, he'll feel sympathy...and then he'll laugh when she falls down the stairs. Azriel asks early in if a facial injury Nesta got is an accident, implying it could have been Cassian and that was an ugly moment to me. It pulled me out of the book like oh my god?

I have spoken so much about that hike scene that I'm not touching it here again, but the idea that it was supposed be therapeutic frustrates me. Cassian has no business punishing Nesta for the problems between herself and her sister and literally cant' help himself it seems. Hardly a good look.

Finally, the whole Eris/Cassian/Nesta plot. While I think that people would have liked the Neris pairing regardless of how Eris acted, SJM was working overtime to make Eris sympathetic for her upcoming plot while also making Cassian...what we saw him as...which made people wonder why Cassian was somehow the better person. Because he's IC? Friends with Rhys (who petulantly hates Nesta over her childhood with his wife)? It was hard not to draw comparisons with their situation and think they could have helped each other.

There are a lot of things I liked- Cassian learning to dance, Cassian and Nesta in the prison, Cassian crying when Nesta confesses she doesn't think she's good enough for him because he's so overwhelmed anyone things HE is too good for THEM.

I was never a Nesta hater, and Cassian was my favorite of the bats, so ACOSF was rough for me. I'm doing a big re-read with LB and I admit, I am both excited and dreading getting back to it.

I think ultimately while SJM's personal journeys are her own, the way she conceptualizes trauma and how one moves through it definitely leaves an ugly taste in my mouth. Themes of being broken, ugly, unwanted and damaged and healing through being broken down further by a man who is your forever soul mate have never sat right.

[kneamet]

Angel of cards (7/16)

Trigger Warning: yandere, obsession, obsessive thoughts.

Summary: Joker, Mr. J, anarchist psychopath, Tom Hiddleston. He had many nicknames. Joker was Gotham’s most dangerous and insightful man, with sharp makeup and horribly memorable scars on his face in the form of a smile. He was absolutely crazy and deadly. No one knows his real identity and everyone is afraid of his cruel jokes. But what happens when he becomes obsessed with an ordinary girl?

She belongs to him. No one can take her away from him. Even The Batman.

Chapter seven: unexpected guests

Harvey just couldn't think rationally the last day. Blake. His beloved niece, whom he had so fiercely protected and so passionately cherished. She was his favorite relative, the only person who supported him in what he was doing now.

And now, he was standing in an elevator with an equally beloved man, a beloved woman, Rachel Dawes, who was the most beautiful person in his life. The love of his life. Rachel had always been sympathetic and untruthful to him, and there was nothing he could do to repay her. Except to propose to her.

Harvey, as well as his Rachel, were now at a" party " with Bruce Wayne, with whom his beloved had known since childhood. And that's fine, even when Bruce, with his pretentiousness, infuriated him. But that was just a small thing, given that he'd called him this afternoon to let him know that he'd do everything he could to find Blake.

Dent looked at Rachel, who was biting her lip in her usual way and looking a little worried. He knew that his beloved, as well as he himself, did not particularly like all these social events, and they liked an ordinary evening with delicious wine and an old movie more.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped and opened its doors, giving Harvey and Rachel a view of the rich people standing around each other drinking champagne.

"Harvey Dent, scourge of the underworld... Rachel suddenly began, beginning to circle slightly around Dent and look at him with what Harvey, and probably Bruce, thought were beautiful eyes. "...scared to death of the powerful, " she said ironically, but she still understood that Harvey was having a hard time, which he basically appreciated. Suddenly her eyes caught on something, and she smiled and looked back at Harvey. "I'll be back soon."

"Rachel," Dent said softly as she left, and suddenly a familiar voice came from the left side.

"Would you like some courage, Mr. Dent?" said a man who looked very familiar, but Harvey had some doubts that this was the man Rachel had told him about.

"Thank you. Alfred, right?" Harvey decided to make sure as he accepted the glass.

"That's right, sir," the older man replied with a polite smile.

"Rachel talks about you all the time. You've known her all her life," Dent knew that Alfred was one of the only people who cared about Rachel. She always praised him.

"Oh, not really, sir," Alfred corrected quickly, shifting the tray to his other hand.

"Should we be wary of her crazy exes?" Harvey looked away and looked into the crowd, looking for Rachel.

"Oh, you have no idea how much," Alfred advised and disappeared into the crowd, disappearing unnoticed and smiling cunningly. Harvey looked up at him in surprise, his mouth slightly open.

But no, I need to find Rachel now.

***

The social gathering, as the rich people called it, or the simple party, as Rachel, Bruce, and Harvey would have called it, was going well. People were drinking champagne and wine, and the music played in the background in a quiet background, only adding to the charm.

Everything was fine. Bruce Wayne, surrounded by a crowd of Russian ballerinas, arrived in a private helicopter, saying that he was a little late. He even thanked Harvey for his contribution.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," a loud and drawling baritone voice suddenly rang out, drawing the attention of people who turned their drunken eyes toward those who had arrived, until they noticed his makeup and heard the sound of a cracked lamp somewhere above.

Shouts were heard from the sides. The Joker grinned. That was exactly what he wanted. It was so nice to see their frightened faces. He took a step forward, stepping out of the elevator and passing on, looking for the people who were now looking at him in pitiful fright.

He felt like a God now. A God who can control people's feelings and make them do what he wants. Oh, how he wanted his angel to listen to him. His lovely, frightened little angel, probably begging hard for help right now. She was glad to be with him, though.

"Now we'll entertain you," he said again, grinning at the people around him. "I have one question:" he drawled, walking slowly towards the people and even slightly dancing and jumping up and down. His usual manner, no wonder. "Where's Harvey Dent?" he shouted loudly to the entire room, taking a glass of champagne and spilling most of it as he stared at the man. "Do you know where Harvey is? Do you know him?"" he turned to the other man, placing a glass of unpleasant alcohol, which he did not particularly like, on the snack table.

The Joker slowly surveyed the people. He saw in them the whole spectrum of negative emotions, ranging from anger to contempt with horror. How ugly they all are. And no, not physically, like the Joker, but morally.

"You know, me and his family will be fine," the Joker said to no one else, making his usual smacking lips.

"We can't be intimidated by bandits," the voice said. It seems that someone was very brave, Joker thought, and turned to the owner of the old voice.

That's right, there was an elderly man standing next to him, raising his head up and up. It seems that someone wanted to show their superiority.

"Listen..." the Joker muttered, pulling a small pull-out knife from his nearest pocket and sliding it up unnoticed, his other hand shaking as he straightened his hair. "...you look like my father, " the man said with disdain in his voice, literally running into the older man with quick movements and putting a knife to the corners of his mouth. "I hated my father," he said with hatred, only pressing harder and feeling the indignant and frightened feeling in the man.

"Okay, wait," came a sudden voice from the left side. Voice. Female. Slightly squeaky, but quite pretty. Such voices do not wish you well. They will surely only be able to do harm.

The Joker turned his head and lowered his hands to look in the direction of the voice. A woman was looking at him, hands on her hips. A pretty woman. Brown hair, softly tied up in a bun, and blue eyes. She was really beautiful.

But the Joker had always known that beautiful girls were equal to loss and suffering. So no, especially since she reminded him too much of the woman he hated so vividly and despised so fiercely. His mother.

And even more so, this woman was no more beautiful than his angel. No, his angel was perfect. She was simply incomparable and he must protect his angel. Definitely should.

"Hello, beautiful," the Joker said gently, as some might think, and very mockingly, smoothing his hair with the hand that held the knife. "You must be Harvey's chick," he said gruffly, pointing at the woman with the knife as people backed up around her. But no, although he allowed himself to communicate with other women in this way, he would not allow himself to communicate with his angel in this way.

Joker could see the contempt on the face of the Harvey woman, who was looking at him with defiance and a little fear. Really brave.

Finally, the Joker moved even closer to the woman who came up to his chin. How low. He looked down at her and lifted his hand, smacking his lips lightly. "You're so nervous. Is it because of the scars? Tell me where they're from?" he asked her, asking impossibly stupid questions. She turned away and looked away as the Joker quickly cupped her face in his hands, pointing the knife at her mouth. "Hey," he said, treating her very roughly. "Look at me," he advised, leaning closer to her father and creating a dangerous effect. "I had a wife. Beautiful as my angel, " he saw her surprised and frightened look, felt her gears turning with her brain. "She told me I was too sad..." he put the knife in his mouth."...that I need to smile more often. “She was a gambler, and she owed the sharks a lot. Hey, " seeing her not looking at him, the Joker took offense and only pressed harder on the knife. "They cut her face once," he continued, only squeezing the woman's face harder, which only made her wince. "We had no money for the operation. It was killing her, " he whispered softly. "I just wanted her to smile again. I wanted her to know that I didn't care about the scars. 'So...' He only paused, as if amplifying the effects of the silence. "...I put the blade in my mouth and did it... he explained, tucking a curl behind his ear with his free finger. On the one hand, it might seem that he was just flirting with her, but no. He is faithful, and will always be faithful only to his angel. "...by myself. And you know what? She couldn't see me," the Joker said in mock bitterness, raising his eyebrows and continuing to press with shaking hands. "She's gone. Now I see the irony. I'm always smiling now, " he drawled, when suddenly Rachel felt a kick in the balls.

Oh, he covered it with his hands, but also quickly removed them. The Joker looked at the woman and shook the knife slightly.

"You like to fight. I like it, " he remarked, and was about to move closer to her when a painfully familiar and filtered voice came from behind.

"Then you'll like it."

Batman. The Joker smiled, not even turning to look at him. It's time for a great game.

***

"What have I done," a small boyish voice whispered. The guy opened his eyes in amazement and fell to his knees in surprise, continued to look at his hands full of blood. The red blood that had oozed from his mother earlier.

He looked at his mother's corpse, still not believing what was happening. What's happening?

"You did the right thing," the voice said. Such a familiar voice in my mind. The joker. He mentally patted the main person on the shoulder and roughly kissed his forehead, which was lowered down. "You've done well, but I'll take your place now, my dear boy Tom."

[gabrieldrawsstuff]

Aight fellas, I'm doing a list of canon descriptions of dw characters for future reference, might do a second part with more minor characters

SPOILER ALERT OBV

STRANGER

-THE JOURNAL : "Somehow I'm wearing a coat, so I must've changed my clothes on my way here. I don't recognize myself anymore. I can barely hold this pencil. Has my body changed?"

-DOCTOR : "I see you haven't regained your speech. You need to find another doctor."

-SNAIL : "Your face... What happened to you?

The snail's jaw falls so low, it almost detaches itself from the rest of the body.

You scared me... You barely resemble a human... You should cover yourself..."

SNAIL : "You're so ugly, I feel like puking... You barely resemble a human being..."

THE CRIPPLE : "You, lad. You've got your hands and legs. Strong arms. I beg you!"

MAMA ELEPHANT : "Can't you speak? Did someone take away your voice?"

MAMA ELEPHANT : "Your gob looks like that because of this fiendish air, do you know? I bet you can't speak, because you didn't keep your mouth shut when walking through the woods."

MAMA ELEPHANT : "(...) I know you want something, you leper demon."

MUSHROOM GRANNY : "(...) But you're young and strong."

CHICKEN LADY : "Whaddaya need, poor soul? Hungry, eh? I'd give ya some stew, but what good will it do?"

(I think in polish version it was closer to 'how will you eat it' although I can't be sure)

MIRROR : "You are one ugly bastard. I guess you got what you deserved."

MUSICIAN : "This is our doctor, yes? He is just as brave and good as you are!"

MUSICIAN : "You're not af-fraid of anything!"

WOLFMAN : "Even from afar I can smell your putrid stench. Be glad I don't have an appetite for carcasses, Meat"

WOLFMAN : (after the church dream sequence) "Meat, what's with the big eyes? Hehe... Scared?"

WOLFMAN : (when you nod to a question if you're making a joke of him) "You're a brave piece of meat... and what's more important, one with a sense of humor. 

WOLFMAN : "Are you pretending to be human, or are you just cracking jokes?"

WOLFMAN : "You look tired, Meat. Busy night?"

WOLFMAN : "Have fun, Meat... Just remember to hide that disaster of a face or it's no dancing for you"

WOLFMAN : (when you spare the sow) "My heart sings with joy when I see such selfless kindness. Tell me the truth, Meat. It was you, wasn't it?"

vvvvv

TRADER

-A man, roughly my size, is standing before me.

I can barely make out his disturbingly familiar features through the matte visor of his helmet...

The massive helmet is covered with an old sack and seems to be an integral part of the unnaturally pale body.

-The man reaches out to me with his black hand. It's covered in charcoal... There's something written on his worn, woolen glove.

-Visibly struggling, the man drops the sack from his back and bends in half, as if out of breath. He shakes the dust off his clothes, then rolls up the sleeve of his, seemingly too small, jacket. 

-The old sack covering his body slides down, revealing his chest, covered in horrid growths. It is fused with a porous helmet, pulsating to the rhythm of his breath.

vvvvv

WOLFMAN

THE JOURNAL: "If I'm not delusional, the man whom I met... had the head of a wolf."

FIRST ENCOUNTER: The figure hides its face under the hood. It smells of wet soil and fur.

WOLFMAN: "(...)I barely believe my beautiful eyes... (...) The Wolf smiles, revealing a row of sharp teeth.

AT BARN RUINS: The Wolf makes a quick leap and, bouncing against me with his swollen belly, he puts his paws on my shoulders. He ostentatiously licks his face. (...)

-I notice fresh bloodstains on his fur and feel streaks of his saliva dripping onto my coat. 

-The Wolf takes two steps back. I can only see a row of filthy, sharp teeth underneath his hood.

-The Wolf squeezes my arms and starts licking my face. Once from the left side, once from the right side. (...) His breath stinks of rot.

WOLFMAN: "Thanks to you I feel fulfilled! I got my girl, my sweet little lady back."

-Suddenly the Wolf sends me back with a powerful push and reaches into his coat pocket.

WOLFMAN: "(...) and then nothing wil keep you from getting the fuck out of my part of the woods! Do you get me, Meat? You will pack your bags, dive into that stinking hole of yours and dissa-fucking-pear!"

-Finally he snorts, his thick, yellow spit landing on the photo.

-The Wolf grabs the box and starts sniffing it from every angle. I could swear I've heard his tail moving under his coat.

WOLFMAN: "And what am I supposed to do with it? Bite it until it opens? Your brain must be rotting if you think I will break my fangs for this shit."

WOLFMAN: "An electronic game, eh? About a wolf stealing chicken eggs... hehehe. Good one!I've a soft spot for games, how about you?"

-As I produce the key, the Wolf's pupils widen with excitement.

WOLFMAN: (about villagers) "Those selfish, deceitful wretches! They think they're superior, because they have human gobs. They treat us like lepers! But you know what? Fuck them. We're buddies, aren't we? And them? They deserve to be punished, Meat..."

-The Wolf pierces me with his look and grins. A string of saliva lands on his hole-riddled jacket.

-The Wolf puts his paw on me. I can feel his claws puncturing my skin.

WOLFMAN: (about piotrek) "Meat! Fucking hell, seen that? Hahaha! Seen that? Hahaha! Off he flew, didn't he? OFF HE FUCKED!!! Hahahaha!"

WOLFMAN: "If you wish to spend some more quality time basking in the striking, yet natural beauty of my features before you head off to the Silent Forest, you will find me in my camp in the Dry Meadow."

vvvvv

DOCTOR

THE JOURNAL: "What I do know is that the insane fucker took my key. My only chance to get out of the woods. He also tore out all the pages from my journal."

THE JOURNAL: "The doctor has escaped. So be it. He would only be a hindrance anyway."

CHICKEN LADY: "My sisters! Where did ya find it? It's all that godless quack's fault - devil brought him! All he did was prescribe this and that, scribble this no-good drivel! To hell with them papers!"

-I can feel the doctor's cold hand grab me by the jaw, (...)

-He removes his dirty glasses with a trembling hand and freezes.

DOCTOR: "First they begged for help, now I need to hide from them! I'm just an ordinary doctor! How the fuck was I supposed to help them?! How?!"

-With shaking hands, he reaches for the cigarrete butt between his yellow teeth.

DOCTOR: "I used to come here to treat people. I pulled out kids' milk teeth, delivered babies... (...) Last time I came here was three or four years ago. Then the trees blocked the path."

-The Doctor is visibly pleased with himself and his theory. His hands are no longer trembling. He produces a hand-rolled cigarette and lights it.

DOCTOR: "(...) I have no idea where it leads. I'm a shitty diver. (...)"

-The Doctor stares right into my eyes. Mud drips from his face. He hasn't blinked in over a minute.

- (...)His glasses are so dirty, I barely see the eyes hiding underneath.

-A chunk of mud falls down on his exposed tongue. He chews it slowly and swallows with satisfaction.

-The Doctor puts the muddy hand into his mouth, grimaces and pulls out a yellow tooth. He puts it into the pocket of his torn trousers. The tooth falls through a hole. He does not notice this...

-Slowly he bends down and grabs a thick branch from the ground. He starts biting the bark off of it. He swallows the bark with an effort, but also great satisfaction. He places the stick among other ones sticking out of his mud-covered head.

WOLFMAN: "Well, well. I know this quack. A nonentity, a third-rate witch doctor. Useless fucking clunker... But he still managed to screw you over with that key. Eh, comrade?"

MUSICIAN: "This is our doctor, yes? He is just as brave and good as you are! He helped me. He is helping all of us! He gave me this beautiful mask, so I could be healed of my afllictions. Maybe you could have one too..."

vvvvv

vvvvv

MUSICIAN

THE JOURNAL: "I met a boy in the village. He told me that the "Chicken Lady" keeps the "Pretty Lady" locked in her house. The boy really wants to see her, but the old woman won't allow it."

THE JOURNAL: "I decided to give the key to Chicken Lady's room to the little boy. He thanked me and asked me to bring him his mom's violin (it's hidden behind the wardrobe). He's afraid to go himself, as his parents are supposedly angry with him."

THE JOURNAL: "The boy sure was happy to see the new violin. (...)The kid also told me I should visit him in his parent's home someday."

CHICKEN LADY: (after musician's death) "Maybe it's just that me ears are getting worse, but it's been a while since I've heard that monster outside me windows..."

CHICKEN LADY: "Holy Mother, this creep again! May the devil take him and his blasted violin!"

MUSICIAN: "The Pretty Lady? S-she's... the most beautiful lady in the w-world! I w-watch her through the cracks in the window. S-she ch-changes when I watch her... g-gets more beautiful. I p-play for her... I want her to be h-happy..."

MUSICIAN: "I fished out the Pretty Lady's w-wreath from the river! (...)Oh yes, I will become the Pretty L-lady's husband! We w-will walk hand in hand, s-sir. I will play for her, mister s-sir."

-A skinny little hand emerges from beneath the tractor and grabs me by the ankle.

MUSICIAN: "They will not l-listen to me, they w-won't hear how sad I am, sir..."

-One of the strings securing his mask falls off, together with his ear. The boy reattaches it as if nothing happened.

MUSICIAN: "My m-mom has this beautiful violin! I would ask her to b-borrow it to me, but she's too angry with me... Could you p-please c-convince her to b-borrow it to me? I'll g-give you a card with drawings for her. To apologize."

-The boy turns the game in his hand for a while, but he can't find a way to reach the buttons with his overgrown fingers. The game slips out of his hand and drops to the ground. The wannabe musician freezes.

MUSICIAN: "(...) maybe you could take a wee piece of... m-meat for me? I've never eaten a pig and I've h-heard it's very tasty! W-would you take s-some for me?"

-The boy sniffles and rubs the mask with his deformed hand.

-From beneath the mask you can hear a horribly distorted, resounding voice... of a child?

-The figure tries to turn its head, but its enormous neck makes this task impossible to complete.

MUSICIAN: "P-please let me stay. P-please, don't chase me off. I've got nowhere to... go. The villagers don't a-a-allow me to live in the camp. I p-p-promise I won't p-play anymore! I'll be quiet. You can c-cover me with something, if you don't w-want to look at m-me..."

MUSICIAN: (after gifting you a rat) "(...) I mean, she jumped on my hand and s-started nibbling on my f-finger! I quickly clasped my h-hand and b-bit through its neck!"

-The corners of the boy's mouth turn up in a grotesque smile, exposing rows of overgrown teeth, which even his mask couldn't hide.

-The boy clumsily grabs the ball in his hand. He carefully hides it under his legs, so that it doesn't roll away.

MUSICIAN: "S-sorry! I didn't want to! T-this thing is coming out of m-my body. I... I tried to stop it, but I don't think I can... N-now the whole room is covered with... this. I didn't want to make a mess, I s-swear! Please, don't t-throw me a-away!"

-The boy leans over the violin lying next to his overgrown left hand. He plucks one of the strings with his right hand, clumsily trying to keep the rhythm.

MUSICIAN: "Recently, I've grown quite a bit. My mom always used to say that I need to be b-big and s-strong... to help her out in the field..."

The boy tries to hug his frail knees with the disproportionately massive torso.

"But I... I don't want to be big anymore. It's v-very hard being big. You need to be so... so strong! To even walk.Now my v-violin is... too s-small for me!"

vvvvv

vvvvv

[sienna-writes]

Butterfly Blood || novel update

chapter three

I initially had a lot of trouble with this chapter. It’s been through about three drafts and it’s still nowhere near perfect, but I’m working on just moving forward with the novel now and am trying to quit obsessing over revising because... it’s unrealistic to expect a first draft to be perfect. 

The first draft of this particular chapter, though, was basically all dialogue, and all very poorly executed dialogue. (Dialogue is absolutely the weakest aspect of my writing but I’m working on it.) On my second attempt at the chapter I initially attempted to create an outline, thinking this would help me find a direction. However, in my next writing session I ended up totally ignoring the outline and just winging it, and the second draft was formed. I really liked the events in the chapter now but still wasn’t happy with some of the individual scenes so I reworked it yesterday morning. The argument between Rowan and Karmen still needed revision  because Karmen’s character within it was totally inconsistent to his usual disposition. So! The final (for now..) draft is a more stripped back, since Karmen is too disassociated to get as angry as he did as quickly as he did, and I think the tension and the build up is a lot better timed and more... muted? It’s less overt, more subtext heavy, and I'm relieved because that is what I had been trying to achieve all along.

Again, it’s not perfect, but it has evolved and it is definitely better than before. 

The chapter is just over 3000 words now, but I am only going to be sharing the main, gritty extract. The other scenes are less exciting, but I also suspect they need the same amount of work till they're even remotely sharable. (I was going through a bad writing slump in this chapter lol.) I really hope you enjoy it? I'm ultimately quite proud of how it turned out in the end :)

excerpt:

[Rowan has missed her GP appointment + her dad uses it as an oppurtunity to also be angry about her slacking in school]

    “I’ve booked another for tomorrow morning. You’ll miss some school, but I figured that’d be an incentive since you don’t seem to care about that anymore.” There is now an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before.

    Rowan visibly flinches, digging her fingernails into the supple skin of her palms. The dents purple then fill with blood. She locks eyes with her father, searching for the reason for his sudden anger. He has struck a nerve and he knows it.

    “Miss Phelps called.”

    She pushes her toes into the dirt, white sneakers now blotted with dust. “Oh.”

    He doesn’t ask for an explanation, simply straightens his back like an ancient scroll unravelling itself and meets her gaze finally. Karmen stands with his chest puffed out and his chin pointed forward. It is apparent that he won't ask her side of things. He’s heard enough, and has his made up his mind about her already.

    Rowan pushes past him to get inside. Karmen doesn’t shift as she squeezes by his statuesque stance. His face twitches like a camera shutter, so fast she can barely believe the change in his expression. She convinces herself it didn’t happen and throws her bag onto the couch, almost tempting another lecture. A tamer one. Something he could murmur through his daydream fog before slipping back into his silence and letting everything remain undiscussed. Like it normally is. Her slipping grades. Her laziness in class. Not writing a single word in an entire school day. Talking back for little to no reason.

    He turns as her rucksack lands, his footsteps looming behind her. Something sharpens the air between them, but she can’t tell what. The elephant is in the room and it is wrecking the place. They watch the destruction mutely, each waiting for the other to intervene and consequently letting the walls crumble into ruin. The old house audibly creaks, it is so quiet. Finally, Karmen speaks. “What’s the matter with you?”

    Rowan runs through all the excuses she can think of. I was dropped as a child. I was a premature baby, so my brain must be under-developed. The content is so easy it feels obsolete. I’m being bullied. I’m just not as smart as you thought, dad, sorry. Teachers are liars and we both should have known this.  “There’s just too much.” She says instead, through gritted teeth, moving into the kitchen. “I can’t focus on school and have to be there for everyone.” It is limp and she knows it. It flops between them weakly like a helpless fish. She takes a glass from the cabinet and closes it softly.

   He consumes the lie like a starved ghost, though. Proving he doesn’t know her. Doesn’t know how absent a friend she has been of late. How she has become her father at school, numb and quiet. How, secretly, she enjoys the façade because people avoid her, don’t ask difficult questions, don’t tackle her with unnecessary comments about her long-lost mother. “Then stop being there.” He says simply.

Rowan scoffs. “I do enough of that at home.” She studies her dad’s face—clenched jaw and squinting eyes—as if it hurts to look at her. “Everyone’s always telling everything how things must be. I must participate, I must be smart not emotional, I must not slack for exams I know I will pass without a glance at my books”—suddenly an urge to twist the knife into his gut overwhelms her, she draws out the moment as she fills the glass with a thread of water from the tap—"I must deal with a stranger for a Dad and a god knows what for a mother. A shrieking banshee? An abusive fugitive? She’s probably become a social worker just to scorn us.”

    He rolls his lips, lowers his gaze and chews on the inside of his cheek, sucking it in. Rowan’s breath catches in her throat. In this moment he looks shockingly hollow. Did she empty him? Wind him with her blows? Spoon out his entrails with an ice cream scoop? Carve him like the roasted corpse of some great beast? Karmen puts two hands on the back of the chair opposite her, clutching it as if he might just fall over. His stare is cold and unsympathetic when he raises it toward her. “Don’t you want to make something of yourself?”

Yes. “What?” She laughs bitterly, placing the tumbler on the counter with a satisfying thud. “Like how you made something of yourself?” There is a terrible moment where he sits in the midst of the cruelty, shrinks into himself as if absorbing it, before his mouth creaks open and he lets out a broken shriek.

“GOD DAMMIT ROWAN!” Rowan flies back, arms sheltering her head instinctively as he reaches for the glass she placed on the counter, spins, and throws it at the wall. One big horrific movement. A cutting arc of his arm through the air and then the shattering. “Are you ever even listening?”

    Millions of glittering fragments of her life laid out before her, encircling her bare feet. She thinks of the sneakers she slipped off at the door, wishing she had them now.  Something about naked feet look so naïve, so vulnerable. Her toes shrink, curling inward. Her breath quickens and her hands begin to tremble. All this broken glass. All these fragments like a lifeline stretched between them. Her eyes blink away tears in different shards, her reflection is fragmented, her features lost and bobbing about as if at sea.

    “Are you, dad?” Rowan asks in an empty voice, staring at him till he flinches. He stares at the glass on the floor in shock.

    “I...” He crouches, sifting through it with his bare, shuddering, and unsure hands. “I don’t know why I did that...”

    Rowan gets a sudden urge to have the last word. Except she doesn’t speak. Her eyes settle on the glass and the idea flourishes like a flame in her mind, burning everything rational, everything he might think. To hell with appropriate. To hell with acceptable. One unsteady step. She expects a crunch or a crackle, but instead there is a damp muffle and squelch. Her spine rattles and her teeth prickle in response. A sunrise in her chest warms her throat but she presses against it with her palms, forcing it down. It is a scorching, molten pain. Third degree burns and all she swallows rays of light till she is drowning, gorging. Slipping through furnace tongue flames. Rowan gags. Bile and acid boils her tongue and the bright, burnt out orb slips into her stomach. She gulp, gulp, gulps every atom of the blaze that consumes her. Till she is heavy. She walks across the broken glass as he yells out. Let there be outrage. Let the sky fall. Its clouds embrace her limbs, draining everything fluid from her, letting her grow limp. Letting her rain. Heavy. As she moves away from the kitchen, she feels her footsteps peeling from the floor, warm and wet. And she is so, so heavy. Then she stumbles, splintered feet unable to keep her up—her legs can no longer hold her and her lava—as the pain erupts within her fierce and sharp and sudden. Flashing its ugly teeth. Catching one last glimpse before her vision goes dark, she sees a red ocean seeping into the living room. How could one body hold so much? Fast and gushing the rapids wash her dregs of consciousness away. It was just a few steps...

soo... yeah. Rowan walks on glass because, oh lord that girl has no impulse controls. 

I'm not going to lie, although it was a pain to get this scene to the stage I have just shared, I think it's one of my favourites in the book so far. I'm proud of how much it's grown. Also, I love me some dramatic descriptions of pain and characters being nasty... :”)

I hope you enjoyed this update! (if you did, reblogs really help me out, but absolutely no pressure <3) I’m also still looking for people to add to the tag list, so if any of this interested you, feel free to send me an ask, message or comment. :)

Tag list under cut (ask to be added or removed):

@alicewestwater @elaz-ivero @coffeeandcalligraphy @hanwatchingmovies @sirfitzroys @chloeswords @nev-953

[myvelouri]

My old best friend. I met him in 5th grade. We became close. I was very weird but very funny. I would joke a lot. I was talkative and loved messing with people. I was friends with all the girls, most of them. I was this fat kid, who drew really well, but for some reason got made fun of a lot. Girls would see it and feel bad for me and try to protect me at times. But the pretty girls would bully me too.

Anyway, my old best friend, Georgie. I love him still. We used to sit together, he bleached his front hair, then so did I. We got close man. My sense of humor matched his so well, he was so goofy like me. I was more so though. Like, if you saw us together he'd look like the quiet one. But yeah I'd go to his house after school sometimes. His older sister was so hot lol. Me and him would go out and play on bikes or walk around the neighborhood. What we really did was draw, we drew a lot. It was me, Georgie and a few others in a group, we had our little friend group, we ALL drew. I think it was because of me it started. I drew since I was 4 so I was extremely good. My friends saw it and were so impressed. I'm actually really good though, I really am!! I practiced a lot!! I also just naturally was good at it, it's like the only thing I was extremely good at. And so the group looked up to me just in that sense, or recognized me as the best artist haha. They'd make jokes like "oh yeah, he could draw that so fast" because one of our buddies in the group was a bit jealous and he'd always say his older brother could draw better than me. My friends all would clown him lol. We had a girl in our group too, Jill. I had a crush on her.

But me and Georgie, yeah, way close. I'm a very loving and sentimental person. I may have cared about him more than he did me. Because the day I was forced to move states and leave behind Georgie, and all my friends, my whole life, I told him to call me but he wasn't consistent with it. I missed him a lot. But we were driven apart.

I was in middle school. I had a home economics class. I was so fucking talkative and funny, all the girls loved me. None would want me sexually, I was the funny as fuck guy everyone loved. It was really nice! I was also really good at the easy crap we did in class cause, idk, a lot of home ec shit was shit I did with my grandma growing up lol. So everyone and the teacher was inpressed. They loved me so much. So much so that when I told them I'm moving they actually threw me a surprise party and gave me a card, a huge one with everyone in class' signature. Everyone signed it! My heart! My personality was so big that I was so loved, these people cared I was leaving so much! It makes me cry even to this day. And this was my personality before I had depression. Depression came about 5 years later and wiped away my entire personality, passion, humor, and just me in general.

I miss Georgie at times. He was this beautiful kid who got all the girls. I was always the ugly fat friend. Everytime man. But everyone in all our classes knew I drew well. I drew during class too. Kids started wanting to buy my art. I was amazed. So I started selling. I made a bit if money just in middle school. Lmao kids would pay with their lunch money.

It was such a wild life

Pre-depression me is a totally different entity. Man, I died long, LONG ago.

So Georgie, he's still in New York. I don't draw anymore as well, it's difficult to attempt to emotionally for me now, depression and a lot of sadness behind it. I don't know. If I draw, I get overwhelming sad now. So I don't anymore. But Georgie is now a tattoo artist. He's got his own shop in NY. He's been doing it for like ten years now. We hit each other up every now and then. He offered to pay for my flight to come see him. It was so sweet!! But do you know why I declined? Because I'm afraid of him seeing me like THIS.. I'm not who he remembers, I feel ashamed of myself. Depression and life ruined me BADLY. And I don't want to destroy the image of the "real" me he has in his head. Also I haven't kept up with drawing so it's embarrassing. I would disappoint him badly and I can't... Everyone thought I'd be something big. I even drew comics for the school paper.

I'm so sad

One time during P.E. we were playing dodgeball and we weren't on the same side. But we were so good that we knocked out ALL players from both sides and it was just ME and GEORGIE 1v1! Can you believe that? It's like something out of a movie, it was so hype. Me and him were special lmao. It was great. Well, the WHOLE class is watching, Georgie throws the ball at me, I see it coming AND BOOM! I catch it with one hand. He's out! I win! Hahaha. Everyone was amazed. I was pretty athletic for a fat kid, I told you, before depression I was very good at a lot of things.

I've lost it completely. My brain is totally damaged. My depression is severe. It's hard to just think. I'm not kidding.

But yeah

Ha